Daily me, silly me

The sense that there is something missing,

That I lack something - not in my life, but in me

Has been with me since I've first understood me as a human being.

I got used with not having much fun, much energy, much of anything

It is as if each day is a prologue,

Just backstory to what really matters on my book - but the conflict never starts.

A call for the journey never arrives.

I was raised by fantastic stories,

Filled with love, loss, magic, dragons and elves,

And I wonder if they are to blame for how unbelievably boring and grey life is now:

Just silly old me, silly daily me, with little to no adventure tales to tell.