Portable Worlds
Recently, I keep wanting to run. Is that an age thing where people my age keeps thinking about? No idea. It's not about work stress, I know that much, because it's not work or college I want to run from. Today is my last day at college and I'm packing up to go 'home' for Gawai break for a week before finals. Maybe 'home' is where I'm running from.
Emotional stress is straining. Perhaps I would've dealt better with it if I wasn't such a fucked up person with a fucked up personality but hey, beggars can't be choosers.
Being a cutter, or at least, an ex-cutter in a rehab process I guess to put it better, has been my go-to stress relief for nearly 4 years. Of course, Amelia put a stop to that.
I didn't cut as much in high school as I did in college, back then. It made me wonder, what was it that calmed me down from the temptation of my blades when the effects of PTSD at the time were at its highest? Then I realized, the one thing I didn't have in my college that I had in my room. My books.
My portable, magical worlds.
I didn't think about cutting, or suicide as much, when I am fully immersed in the wonderful wonders of heavenly smelling papers strapped together as a savior of souls.
When did that change?
Between stripping myself bonkers for work and holding out the emotional strain for coloring my skin, I had forgotten completely about my once loved collection of worlds, lying still and eating dust between their pages. Oh I feel horrible.
Now, reading The Inquisitor again, I feel as if my soul is unfurling from its fetal position that it has been curling in for who knows how long. I feel like a long, overdue embrace by an old friend. How I miss that feeling.
Maybe, when I get 'home', I'll devote myself to clear the dust in between the books and making them feel loved and wanted and cherished again, as they have served me.
We both need it, certainly, in times such as these.
After all, when people and things were too hard for me to deal, I'll always have them.
My books.
My portable worlds.
Emotional stress is straining. Perhaps I would've dealt better with it if I wasn't such a fucked up person with a fucked up personality but hey, beggars can't be choosers.
Being a cutter, or at least, an ex-cutter in a rehab process I guess to put it better, has been my go-to stress relief for nearly 4 years. Of course, Amelia put a stop to that.
I didn't cut as much in high school as I did in college, back then. It made me wonder, what was it that calmed me down from the temptation of my blades when the effects of PTSD at the time were at its highest? Then I realized, the one thing I didn't have in my college that I had in my room. My books.
My portable, magical worlds.
I didn't think about cutting, or suicide as much, when I am fully immersed in the wonderful wonders of heavenly smelling papers strapped together as a savior of souls.
When did that change?
Between stripping myself bonkers for work and holding out the emotional strain for coloring my skin, I had forgotten completely about my once loved collection of worlds, lying still and eating dust between their pages. Oh I feel horrible.
Now, reading The Inquisitor again, I feel as if my soul is unfurling from its fetal position that it has been curling in for who knows how long. I feel like a long, overdue embrace by an old friend. How I miss that feeling.
Maybe, when I get 'home', I'll devote myself to clear the dust in between the books and making them feel loved and wanted and cherished again, as they have served me.
We both need it, certainly, in times such as these.
After all, when people and things were too hard for me to deal, I'll always have them.
My books.
My portable worlds.
Comments
Post a Comment