Thursday, December 21, 2006
I Feel Lost. Will You Come Help Me?
A few days ago, I was angry. Enraged. Irritable. I couldn't find a way to contain the emotion tearing through me, and I tried writing it down in an email, but it only made me even angrier at everything. So I stopped writing, and I poured all my concentration into reading the books I've recently bought at Barnes & Noble.
So for the past few days, that was mainly what I did. I stayed in my aunt's apartment, refused to go out, and only took breaks when necessary. I was absolutely absorbed into the book I was reading. It was one of the things I love so much about reading: the way the story can pull you in, the way the world around you can disintegrate and disappear, taking all your worries and fears and pain away. Reading has always provided me with a haven that I could escape to, where no one could hurt me or touch me. But the problem is, it's probably not very healthy. Sometimes, I would stay up all night and refuse to sleep just so I could read just one more chapter. Or when I force myself to put down the book and turn off the lights, I am haunted by sleepless nights. Sometimes, when I've been sitting in one spot for a long time, and I get up to get a drink of water or whatever, I have a brief moment where my knees are weak, and my vision blacken. But none of these are as bad as when I, for just the slightest and briefest moment, could not tell between the worlds of fiction and reality.
I have just finished a book, Taming the Beast by Emily Maguire, about less than an hour ago. The book was a lot to do with sex, but it was also about passion and obsession and destructiveness and pain. It was to do with sadness and pleasure and painful, painful love. It was a book that I felt I understand and didn't understand at the same time. I felt I could relate to the book, but at the same time, felt completely alienated by it. It's not a book I would go back to, not to say it wasn't a good book... It just wasn't a feel-good book, I guess. Quite the opposite, really. It was very, very sad. A book like that.. You would think it'd make me want to cry for the main character, but it didn't. It made me want to cry for the other characters in the book, but not for the main character.. although her circumstances and life story should provoke one's tears. And I find that sad.
I know, I know... all this nonsensical rambling and ranting. None of it makes sense. But it makes perfect sense to me. It's silly, isn't it, to be all worked up over a book I read? I think I'm just homesick.. and miserable.
So for the past few days, that was mainly what I did. I stayed in my aunt's apartment, refused to go out, and only took breaks when necessary. I was absolutely absorbed into the book I was reading. It was one of the things I love so much about reading: the way the story can pull you in, the way the world around you can disintegrate and disappear, taking all your worries and fears and pain away. Reading has always provided me with a haven that I could escape to, where no one could hurt me or touch me. But the problem is, it's probably not very healthy. Sometimes, I would stay up all night and refuse to sleep just so I could read just one more chapter. Or when I force myself to put down the book and turn off the lights, I am haunted by sleepless nights. Sometimes, when I've been sitting in one spot for a long time, and I get up to get a drink of water or whatever, I have a brief moment where my knees are weak, and my vision blacken. But none of these are as bad as when I, for just the slightest and briefest moment, could not tell between the worlds of fiction and reality.
I have just finished a book, Taming the Beast by Emily Maguire, about less than an hour ago. The book was a lot to do with sex, but it was also about passion and obsession and destructiveness and pain. It was to do with sadness and pleasure and painful, painful love. It was a book that I felt I understand and didn't understand at the same time. I felt I could relate to the book, but at the same time, felt completely alienated by it. It's not a book I would go back to, not to say it wasn't a good book... It just wasn't a feel-good book, I guess. Quite the opposite, really. It was very, very sad. A book like that.. You would think it'd make me want to cry for the main character, but it didn't. It made me want to cry for the other characters in the book, but not for the main character.. although her circumstances and life story should provoke one's tears. And I find that sad.
I know, I know... all this nonsensical rambling and ranting. None of it makes sense. But it makes perfect sense to me. It's silly, isn't it, to be all worked up over a book I read? I think I'm just homesick.. and miserable.
i know that i have loved you ... at 7:13 PM
fate crumbled all around 0 comments
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