If I wrote a happy-ever-after story, would you be in it? I can’t tell, to be honest: writing it without you would make it the saddest story I could ever pen; including you would break my heart.
Would it be easier if we could pen our own stories? Say we could go back, delete those words and sentences, those things that we never wanted to, and never should have said. Imagine we could go forward, and draft out our futures, making intricate plot lines that come together to form pretty little bows at the perfect moment. Everything would have a reason, a meaning deeper than that at face-value. Every princess would find her prince, every stray would find a home.
Would things be better? Would things be easier, if you knew that everything comes together at the end, that every misjudged word, every unconsidered action could be swept aside like it never happened?
If I could pen my own story, I’d make things different. In this version, you would be there, front and centre. Things would be different: we’d run away into the glowing sunset, have picnics in the park, visit Paris and laugh — oh, how we’d laugh. We’d spend every day smiling and laughing, spend our entire lives just living — living for the moment, living for now. And you’d like me.
But that’s where the story turns sour. How could I include you, but not keep you as you are? Changing you would ruin things — even just that most minute, yet most important of details. Changing you even just fractionally would break that spell, that magic of reality, and of truth. The whole fairytale castle would crumble around me, because you wouldn’t be you, and we wouldn’t be us, and things wouldn’t be as they are, and as I know them, and as I love them.
To not include you would be self-inflicted torture. Why craft a world so full of light, of hope and possibility, of smiles and laughter, and not include the one person who makes me feel warm inside? How could I put pen to paper, and design a Disneyland-esque palace, where the sun always shines and the snow glitters and the birds sing, and have myself — the protagonist — eternally miserable, caused by an act of his own doing?
Your imperfections are not imperfections, because to fix them would make you imperfect in nature. My fairytale land would be tainted if I were to alter a single detail about you, but baron if I neglected to include you at all.
If I wrote a happy-ever-after story, would you be in it? Of course you would. But you’d be just as you are, and we’d be just as we are, and nothing would change, really. So is this my happy-ever-after story, here and now, in truth and reality? Am I living out the chapters of my novel, which I have been so intricately planning, drafting, writing and rewriting for 16 years now, actively creating the storyline of today which will, somehow, weave itself into the plot of tomorrow? I suppose my fairytale dream, which I wish and yearn for so often, is simply the double of the under-appreciated life I’m already living.
Would you change your happy-ever-after story? I don’t think i’d change mine. I just need to start living it.