As a young child, I had a wild, vivid imagination. The everyday life of an eight year old wasn't as exciting as I'd hoped. I pictured tiny gnomes slaving over the construction of their intricate underground infrastructure. I once told my best friend that down the road, a strapping fellow that resembled Elvis Presley was swooning over me, and helped me up after a graceful fall. Obviously, the moment entailed a vibrant sunset and frothy romantic appeal.
Unfortunately, I couldn't keep these ideas in my head and compulsively told detailed but fictitious stories to hide the fact that my life, too, was mundane and ordinary. Either my friends were extremely gullible or were tired of arguing with my extraordinary theories. Either way, my stories developed into uncontrollable entities that I could not control, and eventually came back to bite me on my behind.
One instance in particular included an “unexpected sighting” of two ghostly apparitions. The house that we inhabited at the time was older than most on the block, and in my head, was perfect for sightings of the afterlife. I told my mother that I had awoken from a deep sleep in the early morning hours and was on my way to the kitchen when I spotted something white out of the corner of my eye. I turned and to my horror, I saw a little girl beckoning me towards her and an Ectoplasmic baby with half a tongue crawling in my direction. Needless to say, this dramatic tale won me a trip to a Psychologist once a week.
Either due to this unfortunate consequence of my habitual lying or the simple fact that I grew up, I have become disenchanted with leading a fairytale life. I realize that lies will get me nowhere and that fiction is best kept on paper. Today I have enough excitement to keep me busy, and life is certainly good at throwing curveballs and surprising me at every corner turned. And in conclusion, I have found that indeed, truth is stranger than fiction.
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