All her life she drowned herself in the masterpieces of other. They were her escape out of the boring mundane world in which she lived. Where girls don’t find theur princes and princes don’t turn into frogs. She found the patterns. Searched for the joint moments willing the imaginary life she grew up in, to finally be transcribed into realiy. She settled in to stories where love thrived and where poetic justice was the law of the land. She settled into stories that made her real life seem east, normal, a blessing. To lift her up, to confort her, to show her there was life outside of the mundane. But now she realizes, they control her. The characters she grew to love, the plots she visited over and over. They turned on her, not completing her fantasies or explaining her life. The stories turned repetitive and the plots seemed to melt together. the life in which she grows up had finally come to an end. She will no longer be the audience for now she is the performer only she can create what will satisfy her.