I didn't wake up like other children.
I watched myself wake up.
Like a scene from an anime… frames sliding into place, soft light filtering through the broken wooden window, dust floating in the air. For a moment, everything felt unreal—too smooth, too detailed—like I was both inside the body… and outside it.
Then the cold hit.
Reality.
🌅 Morning
My eyes opened, but I was already aware.
So this is me… again.
A small, thin body. Rough hands. A patched blanket. The faint smell of smoke and mud walls.
I stood up quietly.
Outside, the village was wrapped in mist. It looked beautiful—like a painted background from an animation—but I knew better. That beauty hid hunger, fatigue… and survival.
I picked up the wooden buckets.
Each step toward the well echoed in my mind twice—once as reality, once as a smooth animated sequence. Water rippling felt exaggerated, almost cinematic… but the weight of the bucket digging into my fingers?
That was painfully real.
🌄 Work Before Living
Other kids might dream at this hour.
I worked.
Firewood on my back. Mud sticking to my feet. The forest ahead—dark, quiet, dangerous.
For a second, my vision shifted again.
The trees became sharper, shadows deeper, like a high-budget anime scene. I could almost imagine spirit beasts lurking, glowing eyes hidden in the bushes.
Then a branch snapped under my foot.
And the illusion broke.
No background music. No dramatic pause.
Just me… a child carrying wood heavier than himself.
⚔️ Training
By late morning, I reached the small open ground of the village.
Children gathered.
Some laughed. Some struggled. Some… like me… stayed quiet.
"Run!"
The voice of the instructor cut through the air.
We ran.
In my mind, it looked different.
Each step felt like a training montage—slow motion, dust rising dramatically, breaths syncing like rhythm. My body moved like a character chasing power.
But in reality?
My chest burned.
My legs trembled.
And no one cared if I stopped.
🌞 Afternoon
The sun showed no mercy.
Fields stretched endlessly. The soil was dry, stubborn—just like life here.
I lifted sacks. Carried water. Worked beside adults who never complained because they couldn't afford to.
Sometimes, my vision blurred again.
Golden light, dramatic angles, sweat shining like effort in a heroic journey.
But then—
My hands slipped.
The sack fell.
And the shout that followed wasn't part of any story.
It was real.
🌇 Evening
This was the only time the world softened.
I sat with my family, eating simple food that barely filled the stomach.
The fire flickered.
For a moment… it really did look like a warm anime scene. Gentle lighting, quiet smiles, a sense of peace.
But I noticed things others ignored.
The smaller portions.
The tired eyes.
The silence between words.
Even beauty here… was fragile.
🌙 Night
I lay down, staring at the ceiling.
That strange dual vision returned again.
One side of me saw everything like a story—like I was the main character, destined for something greater.
The other side knew the truth.
I was just a working child in a forgotten village.
No power.
No talent.
No guarantee of tomorrow.
But then…
I clenched my small, rough hands.
If this is a story…
Then I refuse to stay a background character.
Even if my life starts like suffering…
Even if reality keeps dragging me down…
I'll train.
I'll rise.
And one day—
This village, this struggle, this "animation" and "reality"…
Will become the beginning of a legend.