Do you ever wish your life was just a bit more…dangerous?

I’m reading the Divergent trilogy and, just as I did when I read the Harry Potter series or Lord of the Rings or what-have-you, I get so pumped up by the adventure of it. Love seems more thrilling in the midst of danger, in the midst of adventure. EVERYTHING seems more thrilling. And suddenly the quiet life of the everyday Joe becomes a burdensome reality once again

I so long for that adventure. That danger and adrenaline.
But in books there’s the security of knowing things are gonna be ok, because the author is going to make it so. Real life doesn’t always carry those guarantees, and that’s where my adventure craving falters. The Author of my life offers me no such guarantee that things will pan out the way I want them to. There’s no guarantee that I or you are even going to be the “heroes” of our stories–that we’re not going to be the token “unnamed crewman in the red shirt” who gets taken out in the first act.

That’s what scares me. I am dispensable, even in my own life. I mean, none of us gets out of life alive, that’s for certain. But I guess what I want to know is will there be enough time beforehand for a good story…?
I sure hope so.


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