I am an addict. They say people take drugs to take leave of reality and hence experience a better euphoria than reality can ever present you with. So yes, I am an addict. To a several number of drugs.
Books. My primary drug. I am ardent reader. A fiction addict, if you will. They give me such comfort. Because I know that no matter how bad the events, how bad the consequences, how hurtful things become, how much pain endured by the characters, things will always turn out okay. Even if far from perfect. Why are books, no matter how modern, so fairy tale-ish? Because if they weren’t then they wouldn’t be worth the effort. Because people don’t want to read about reality when they already have quite enough of it. And for that simple reason I, too, am an addict to books. With books, it’s so easy to feel what the characters feel. Sorrow when they feel it, knowing somewhere along the way there’s a turning point where happiness will inevitably intervene. Knowing no matter how imperfect things are, characters will, in the end, find perfect bliss. It is such a secure net around me. The only regret is that it’s always so temporary. When every book ends I madly rush towards the other. If I don’t I do suffer withdrawals. And those are unbearable.
In the same way I am addicted to writing. When I can’t have a book, I rush towards pen and paper, and let the ink run across it. I write my feelings, but it’s still an escape from reality because I write with the conviction that I’m pouring it out to someone who can magically fix everything. Yes, for the famous saviour my unconscious mind keeps screaming for...
And so there I am staring at the dark blank screen; my soul is in the eye of a tornado. I want to forget what is happening inside of me. And so, I let my fingers run... and the white letters appear. Losing myself. Forgetting reality. Forgetting the tornado that rages my soul tearing it to pieces. And suddenly I am at the very last full stop. It is the wee hours of night. I want to sleep. I am no insomniac. Yet I know if I stop and close my eyes, the tornado will have the better of me. Sleep touches my eyes and draws me towards the horrible scene. I give in and let my eyelids fall shut.
I hear my unconscious self scream. A scream of terror. A scream of anguish. My insides are torn beyond repair. I’m bleeding. I jump up. Searching for medicine. Drugs. My dearest drugs! Yet there are none around. I’d exhausted my supply for the day. I hear myself scream in my head again. Frantically I search for the cures. None. I can feel the waves of withdrawal starting to set upon me. I want to fight them but I’m too weak. Losing blood. I need a comfort. Please. My imploration silently travels into the empty air and disappears. No one knows I am hurting. No one sees. No one hears. I am quite alone. I hear the last anguished scream for a relief from the pain as my vision blurs out. Water gushes out of my eyes and I sob silently, painfully...until I lose consciousness. Then in the morning I shall wake up again, reaching for my drugs...
Books. My primary drug. I am ardent reader. A fiction addict, if you will. They give me such comfort. Because I know that no matter how bad the events, how bad the consequences, how hurtful things become, how much pain endured by the characters, things will always turn out okay. Even if far from perfect. Why are books, no matter how modern, so fairy tale-ish? Because if they weren’t then they wouldn’t be worth the effort. Because people don’t want to read about reality when they already have quite enough of it. And for that simple reason I, too, am an addict to books. With books, it’s so easy to feel what the characters feel. Sorrow when they feel it, knowing somewhere along the way there’s a turning point where happiness will inevitably intervene. Knowing no matter how imperfect things are, characters will, in the end, find perfect bliss. It is such a secure net around me. The only regret is that it’s always so temporary. When every book ends I madly rush towards the other. If I don’t I do suffer withdrawals. And those are unbearable.
In the same way I am addicted to writing. When I can’t have a book, I rush towards pen and paper, and let the ink run across it. I write my feelings, but it’s still an escape from reality because I write with the conviction that I’m pouring it out to someone who can magically fix everything. Yes, for the famous saviour my unconscious mind keeps screaming for...
And so there I am staring at the dark blank screen; my soul is in the eye of a tornado. I want to forget what is happening inside of me. And so, I let my fingers run... and the white letters appear. Losing myself. Forgetting reality. Forgetting the tornado that rages my soul tearing it to pieces. And suddenly I am at the very last full stop. It is the wee hours of night. I want to sleep. I am no insomniac. Yet I know if I stop and close my eyes, the tornado will have the better of me. Sleep touches my eyes and draws me towards the horrible scene. I give in and let my eyelids fall shut.
I hear my unconscious self scream. A scream of terror. A scream of anguish. My insides are torn beyond repair. I’m bleeding. I jump up. Searching for medicine. Drugs. My dearest drugs! Yet there are none around. I’d exhausted my supply for the day. I hear myself scream in my head again. Frantically I search for the cures. None. I can feel the waves of withdrawal starting to set upon me. I want to fight them but I’m too weak. Losing blood. I need a comfort. Please. My imploration silently travels into the empty air and disappears. No one knows I am hurting. No one sees. No one hears. I am quite alone. I hear the last anguished scream for a relief from the pain as my vision blurs out. Water gushes out of my eyes and I sob silently, painfully...until I lose consciousness. Then in the morning I shall wake up again, reaching for my drugs...
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