As someone who reads an embarrassing amount of fan-fiction on daily basis, narrating his mundane life with sweet, well-grammared sentences in his head is one of his way to spice things up. In a good way. He’s doing this it right now — describing how he washes his dishes in his head, how the water tickles his hand, how he imagines himself stand up behind the kitchen sink, sighing dramatically.
Sometimes it sounds sweet; sometimes it reminds him on how his brain always working either in his writer mode or literature student mode; but most of the times it feels like a self-pity.
It is almost feels like he wants to live a life that is not his own, and, perhaps, it is kind of true in a way.
He longs for the excitement of having an adventure with a group of friends, he wants the rush of giddiness from sleepovers, he desires the feeling of having roommates and randomly throwing impromptu movie night. It isn’t like he doesn’t have friends — he just think that his life is not as exciting as a movie. It’s as human as he could be; it’s never enough. Yes, he actually did an “adventure” once, he did sleepovers a couple of times, he did throwing impromptu movie night on the said sleepovers, but it’s just. Different.
He’s a Southeast Asian boy, longing for your typical teenage life as depicted in western movies. Or, any movies, honestly.
He wants the attic bedroom, he wishes the soft looking comforter, he desires the long, quiet night, spent by looking up through the glass window on the slanted roof, the moonlight pouring in.
And, thus, as he walks under the rain to throw a day’s worth of trash, he thinks about taking hot shower after this. He narrates in his head how he would rinse himself clean, before finally slips under his purple blanket. He configures strings of words to describe how the rain is still falling outside and the familiar smell seeping in through the crack of his hard-to-close window.
He doesn’t mind living in his own small, made-up world, really.