Maybe some of us are never meant to have our own story. Maybe we are meant to regurgitate someone else's tale. Re-write it maybe, maybe reinvent a few details here and there. Embellish it a little, add some frills. But the truth hits you, when try your story on. Because like second-hand clothes, it never really fits quite right. It's like someone lived here, before you did. Like the bed you're sleeping on was made for them and the pillow fits their head better than it ever could fit yours. And even though you've painted the wall your favorite color, every time there's a crack a previously-applied-shade peeps through, as if to almost-teasingly-say, I was here first. It feels strange almost, this second-time-telling. Like its someone else's words, and plots and twists and tales. Like someone else framed the beginning and the ending and organized the grand climax. And as you try to add your own magic to someone else's lives you realize that no matter what you do, when all is said and done perhaps the fairy tale has already been told. And it had nothing to do with you.