I love getting lost in a story. Getting lost in someone else’s story. Believing, for a little while, in love. Believing that maybe, just maybe, true love exists.
After flying home yesterday I stayed with my grandma. We watched the news before bed and then read the paper this morning. There was nothing good. Nothing uplifting. No stories that made my heart happy.
With sadness and cheating and lying and deceiving and corruption what’s wrong with getting lost in love?
Sure ain’t none in my real life.
When you can get lost in your own head, lost in thoughts, worry, anxiety, and confusion, getting lost in romance doesn’t seem so bad. Even if I think love is a fairly tale, something that really only happens in books and movies and to cute grandparents. Love doesn’t happen in real life. Does it?
I read The Lucky One with toes dug deep in the sand over the weekend (one should already read Nicholas Sparks on a beach vacation). Being sad I’m not still at the beach I rented the movie tonight to extend the “lost in love” feeling a little longer.
Snapping back to reality is the worst.