Adventure And Lack There Of

How I view adventure.

Existance for an individual such as my self is incredibly boring. What do I do all day? sit here, typing things, maybe creating a piece or two of art, but no real adventure has pervaded my life for years. I am at the moment bored out of my mind, so bored in fact I deemed fit to write about it so perhaps you can be bored too.
In my early days, before I could think of myself as anyone other then me and never had to worry about how I was seen by others, adventure seemed endless. Everything was adventurous, running wild through the forests of Garabaldi Highlands Elementary school and clutching a narrow longsword others might persieve as a stick but that was to me a deadly weapon. I could speak as a leader or as a captive or as a messenger, sometimes I was sent and other times I could send someone, a friend or an underling to the enemy's camp. Since moving on from such ferrel and wild adventure the world has become listless and dull as have I in spirit and mind along with it. Growing up and becoming what would otherwise be called mature but to me is called a bore has really affected me, especially watching movies like Sherlock Holmes or Avatar in which characters are so overwhelmed with involluntary adventure I almost want to stand up in the cinema and thrust myself towards the screen shouting "take me with you!" or "let's trade lives!". Obviously such exclaimations would be fruitless as not even the actors get the true adventure of it all and certianly a teenage girl in the back row woulden't either, but still the overwhelming desire to solve a murder or fight an alongside aliens or even to be capable of doing either is an infailable preasence in my life these days. Dreams help, they present to me an endless flow of danger and mystery, power and even love. Last night was an odd dream, not odd in its subject but odd in it's realism. I was guarding a house with several other people beside me. each of us held a gun, not the sort of gun you would guard with today but a revolver from the thirties, possibly a contribution of "Public Enemies" , the movie I had watched the night before. Slowly out of the mist and towards the house came out our mirror images, each holding an exact replica of our guns and in our exact formations. Finally, when they were but ten feet away, they opened fire. I was hit , and then again and this was when the dream ended. People tell me you're never supposed to die in a dream, but what's adventure without the fear of death? If I knew I would simply remain standing for the duration of the dream I might have a mind to just stand there as the lazy kid does in doge ball or go on a Kamakazi run, knowing death was impossible. No, death is essential of adventure, at least the threat of it is, the larger possibility, the larger adventure, and the more cataclysmic it is when the protagonist narrowly escapes it's clutches, but then again, with every escape from death there is the not so lucky, adventurous or exciting imminent death to mirror it. Such is a quintessential nightmare and also what deters the timid souls, those who would rather turn up the morphine then be killed doing something you truely love to do.
My uncle died this week, great uncle actually, he was found in his chair were he had been for the final three days of his life. He was doing the one thing I would never, ever want to die doing, he was watching TV.
So, to whoever might have bothered to read this, to whoever cares enough about I who am in so many ways just another mundane teenage girl, thanks for reading, and hopefully undrestanding.

The End

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