He lived for his stories. No matter what medium they existed on. The stories defined him. He didn’t care whether he was reading them, watching them, or listening to them, they were his, and his alone. He wrapped his world around the stories, and the stories provided a symbiotic warmth to him, providing his soul with the necessary strength to charge head-first into the battlefield of life, a zone filled with actions that required a special type of bravery to overcome. The stories aided him. Gave him a new purpose. They were his anchor, his stories. For they were the very thing that helped him wallow through the bog that was the dark, deranged side of his mind. How could he end it? How could he give up, if he couldn’t finish his stories to the bitter end? How could he succumb to it? How could he end it all, if all he had to do was wait? Wait for the day, the day that the new episode, new book, new movie, would release, and he would have the satisfaction of absorbing the pleasure that was crafted by the story. He popped each individual story like a pill. For the stories were the perfect painkillers, the prime example of a healthy addiction. Whether he was discussing his stories with the ones he held close, or just being engrossed in the realities that the stories presented, he was happy. Happier being in these false worlds, than in the real one. Happier surrounding himself with the people of those worlds, than with the people who truly existed. But the worlds and characters he blanketed himself with were real to him and real to the thousands who also lived through their stories. They were his crutch, aiding him through a multitude of periods in his life. Periods he would have never been able to get through alone. That’s why he lived for his stories, and his stories lived for him.
Music. He lived for music. He would consider any type, as long as the melodies, harmonies, and rhythms clicked within his brain. He had an extensive knowledge of music, of everything that made music unique, of the sciences that built the music he clung to. He made music. He crafted it with his own two hands, with the assistance of the instruments he played on. He made it his passion in life to master his playing, his craft in life that would bolster his chances of obtaining the vaguest thing life has to offer. Success, the fickle thing, able to be seen differently by every single person that ever existed. He needed this success. His music was the defining feature that he presented to the outside world. Everyone knew of his passion for music, for its infinite possibilities, and for the wonder it brought. It made him the person he is and will continue to shape him for the rest of his days. He considered music (yes, all music) a story. Every note, a word. Every phrase, a chapter. Like every other musician, he made sure that the stories he crafted were pristine and up to par, so his music could be presented in the best fashion. He won awards for his music, mainly the arbitrary title of superior. Superior in his playing, superior in his ability to mold, to shape a simple piece of paper dotted with cold, lifeless ink, into a story worth hearing, worth praising, worth assigning that label of superior. And when the music was branded that way, so was he. Music was his life story, his craft, his talent. He lived for his music, and his music lived within him.
He has always been an overachiever, the type of person that puts 110% into anything and everything. The person who gets a task and completes it without question, putting forth maximum effort into the simplest of things. He has always been creative, the type of person with ideas swirling around his head in every waking moment. The person who has a burning passion to create. To create to the absolute best of his ability. To create stories. He has always had the burning passion to simply make, to give life to the figments of his imagination, whether it was while drawing as a little kid, or letting his thoughts flow as he types away at his laptop. He was born to create. It seems obvious, that he, a person who holds the highest degree of love and respect for stories, would also have the drive to create them as well. He didn’t even know he could create a story until he tried. And when he tried, he realized that not only did he want to create stories, but he needed to. He had developed a new urge, the urge to have the maximum strength of his mind flow through his hand and create masterpieces. Masterpieces that came from his love of a good story. Because in his stories, he was free to engrave his hopes and dreams, his darkest moments, and his machinations all in one. Free to let the wonders of his imagination take control of his body. Free to be on a higher plane of knowledge than the people he knew. His creations earned him the respect of his peers, the same way his music did. They were creations that reflected his inner soul, whether he was writing about a fantasy world or his own life. His stories were, at first, simple thoughts. Basic ideas that he carved out of his own mind and tended to. And tend he did. The ideas, once fledgling thoughts, had sprouted into a garden of stories. He treated his stories like he would treat a bonsai tree. Always in need of constant attention, or else it would wither and perish, and be sent to die. He was a person that wanted all of his ideas to be elevated to their highest, true potential. He wanted them to simply become something worth praising, worth reading. He wanted the stories to simulate excitement, action, suspense, and every other good quality in between. He wanted them to become masterpieces, whether it was in his own eyes, or the eyes of other people. That’s why he lived for his creations, and his creations lived because of him.
They formed who he was. As simple as that. For they were a positive charge, a light in the dark labyrinth of his life. The stories, regardless of whether they lived for him, lived within him, or lived because of him, radiated positivity, enough to send hope surging through his neurons, until their effects rewired his brain for the better. Positivity was a driving force in his life. He always wanted to be positive, but he never was. His life and brain conspired against him, draining all happiness from him, slowly, but steadily enough to make him crave happiness from other sources. That’s why he needed them to force-feed him that euphoria, to make him seem presentable to the world. If he didn’t have them, he would be stuck in a state that blurs the line between sadness and boredom. Some might call it an eternal meh, the eternal state of not caring. But they grabbed his hand tight and pulled him out of that void. They gave him a sense of purpose. A new meaning. They defined him, just like a caption defines an image. For the stories were his. And hers. And everyone's. The stories not only gave a sense of hope to him, but to the millions of enthusiasts, writers, and musicians around the world. The stories provided these hopes to all of these people, never discriminating, never choosing. For all people deserve the sensation of hope he got when experiencing the stories. Courage, loss, euphoria, love. For stories, they are the one true light in a slowly darkening world. No matter what the medium, stories, as simple as they are, have the most positive effects on people, whether it be the music that flows from the creator’s mind to the ones who experienced it, the writing that flows from the author to the select few people who choose to experience it, or, finally, the shows, movies, and books rooted in pop culture, the ones that rake in new people every day, new people to experience the joys of the stories. For the stories are positive influences, as simple as that. They produce only positive effects for the people who are entranced by them. That was his discovery, the thesis that formed him. The thesis that made him who he was. The thesis of the stories. The thesis of his havens.