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      Why do we dream of supernatural, unconventional lives, lives that often lack realism and are merely used as a warm blanket to cover us during the cold moments of loneliness? Is imagination merely a way to escape our day to day routine, to escape what we don't want to cope with, a way to comfort ourselves? Is it more? How can it be interpreted?
     I started telling myself a modern fairytale yesterday, about a girl named Ruth. Ruth is an ordinary girl-or is she not? Suddenly, Ruth can see things others can't, she grows, and she faces her fears and hopes. Ruth is no longer ordinary. 
    Everybody is extraordinary, in their ordinary lives. That is what we tell ourselves. Mothers constantly assure their children that they are special, in some way. We grow up reading stories about heroes that are ordinary-at least at first-or that were always extraordinary. We wish to convince ourselves that each and every one of us is. Some can even experience it in truth; they might be artists, or geniuses at the top of their field. From the first time that humans lived in a civilized society, they have tried to create monuments, tributes to their existence, so that they are remembered, and looked up to with awe. It is one of the greatest fears in the human psyche. living with this ever changing crowd of people who could be just like  you-who live and think and dream the same way that you do, who will be there to replace you when you are no longer strong, young, and useful. Old people like to reminisce and cling to their outdated way of life and thought because they have realised that the world has passed them by. As our lives go on, we all dream about being extraordinary, so much so that the world will want to keep our presence, even after we are gone. 
    My thoughts are my own, my personality, my background is different from anyone else's. Even siblings, who have so much in common, can be as different as night and day. However, what can assure us that we are the first to have thought something, felt something, seen something? Every single snowflake is different, after all, but in the end they just comprise a cold white mass, shovelled out of the way. Maybe every single one of us is like a string, decorated with a different bead for each memory, thought, feeling. Maybe we carry identical beads, placed differently on our string. Every single string is unique, at first because of  the way the beads are placed on it, and then grows even more so, as each influence and thought helps us evolve and grow even farther away from others.
    If we are all so different, why is everything-books, dreams, thoughts, ideologies-massively produced? Is our humanity the common factor that makes us all cry and laugh and fear at the same things? We live in a world where fairytales are the main product to cultivate-we laugh at ourselves for liking them, we consider them our "guilty pleasures", but still, if they were more realistic, we would be dissappointed. If we wanted to be let down by reality, we could just look at our lives and the lives of those around us, and not be lured into a dark theater, sit next to malodorous people, pay close to 10 euros for hours of entertainment,  and succumb to the lure of pop corn and other nasty, delicious snacks. Movies and books represent the lives we wish we were living-but we don't. We know that. Yet, we dream about it.

It's an endless circle.

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