from my past self

Hi, I'm writing you a letter. I don't know if I could say this. Out loud, I mean. I say things in my head sometimes, to practice them, because they never sound right in my mouth, and i want it to come out right, but it doesn't. So I bounce things around in my head, to remind myself of what to say.
I'm always waiting. I don't know why, I just feel like that's how it works, and something should happen, someone should say something, like in books where something happens, always. I am always waiting, and no one comes, nothing happens, still and quiet, static. I watch, and I can't find anything big happening, like it does to the heroine in the story. So I read, and I hurl myself into the story so deeply I am the character, and the author, and the setting, and the time, just anything but me, and time stops, all the petty things stop, my body and my aches all stop, and I can be happy, or can will be happy, because it may be dark or depressing, but I know that there will be happiness, but more, not happiness, meaning, purpose. That's when I cry the most. I don't really cry, but I cry more than when I really cry, I cry deeper and maybe it never ends. Jolted out of the story, the plug pulled, my body snapping back, and this sinking sensation as I reorient myself, as I close the book, it/she/he/I screams No! Not back to that, don't go, stay and lose you and find me and ride the waves.
It's called emoting, isn't it? When you are in a story so deeply that you are riding the same emotional currents. I guard myself so much in the real world, but in a book or better, a movie, it's ok to relax, let go, because whatever happens, whichever rollercoaster turns plunge me through despair, rage, loss, I know that the ride will end in fulfillment.
If you take me to a movie, I don't know, would you? you can see me being the other person. It's so much safer to be this other person, because their life is planned out, and nothing bad can happen, or if it does, it will eventually come out right. I can't be me, because everything would be happening to me, all that nothing, like the universe saying one big NO.
Reading novels has left me so dissatisfied with life, with my life. I am wandering aimlessly, vaguely searching for something meaningful, grasping at shadows and elusive aromas that slide along the wind. I want real, but not this real, I want Everything to mean something, life that is like having a lunch of bread and cheese and an apple (macintosh) and cool water after a whole morning working in the garden, a full belly and the satisfaction of life (that's why fresh bread is so good, it's irresistible because it is life channeled into something, you work at it and turn it into life, and you eat it and it fills you, healthy and whole and completed in a way that sweets cannot imitate). But life is really for me like a box of chocolates, but not really a good quality kind of chocolate, more like the nestle junk. It tastes good that first moment, and you enjoy, but then you wonder why you ate it, you feel it, poor and shabby, like dirt, in your mouth, and you think of rich and exquisite things, and filling things, and then all the joy of eating has gone, and you want to spit it out, but you are left with the bitter after-chocolate tang. That is my despair. What I want is the water which tastes so much better, cool and singing from the tap, than any soda hissing when opened. I want full, and satisfied, and all I am is empty, with that tantalizing hint of chocolate, sensations of the strange, and I want more, more fantasy, even though I know it won't fill me, it can fill me, but just in a sickly way, a sickeningly empty way. I want to be full.