I distinctly remember being a kid, being told to go to bed, but instead of doing so I would stay up for hours and read. I love books, I always have. I enjoy reading them, losing myself in them, so forth.
Now I find myself experiencing a bit of that youthful rebellion, but more it isn’t simply because of my love for reading, but a lack of wanting to do anything else. I have no desire to eat, and I especially have no desire to sleep. I hate what my dreams bring, and I despise what waking life makes me feel.
A constant longing for something I cannot have, a need that will never be mine. An ache burns within me, craving to be filled. To sum it up: I’m lonely.
By reading, I can experience love a thousand different times, a thousand different ways. I cannot be lonely, because I need only to reread the books to visit my loves again. If only life were like a book. Sigh. Unfortunately, I suppose, it is time for this lonely reader to head off to bed.
I slip now to a place,
Where troubles cannot go,
Deep within my mind,
A place only I know.
And though it’s often a frightening,
Dark and twisted place,
I find myself strangely welcoming,
This cold and dark embrace.
Sometimes I try to run,
Sometimes I try to hide,
Truth be told, I know I’ll never,
Shake these shadows from my mind.
Embrace it I shall, and stitch together,
What remains of my sanity.
I can only hope the darkness within,
Can spare some mercy for me.
Fare thee well, until the next post.