Stream of Consciousness
my weird mind
I have this really specific idea of what I want something to sound like when I name characters. I’m ridiculously picky as to what kinds of letters are used. The meaning is less important that the sound, although if I get both, it’s a bonus.
books decorate the shelves full of dust
only see paper, the real thing or bust
second hand stores, nostalgia and musk
libraries full, can’t find one you cuss
cuz words are the only escapism here
they put you to sleep or leave you in tears
emotional wreck, water stains the page
and they’re real, for a moment they truly engage
what should i do with with these feels I can’t say
too many emotions for days upon days
when it’s all over, you’re begging for more
suddenly your heart is empty and sore
and it hurts because you don’t know what to do
a witness to events with nothing to prove
soon the spine is broken and you analyze
picking apart scenes, decoding all lies
and one day you move on, you find something new
maybe something that won’t make you feel blue
but you know that can’t happen, you’re always attached
emotional trauma over the next batch
of characters you soon fall in love with
more than the last book’s wordsmith
they turn into your friends and your family
and when the books over you cry “please don’t leave me”
it’s a vicious cycle, but no motions to go through
you cry and you laugh and your feelings they stay true
and every night you stay up way past your curfew
reading these books, and your friends think you’re cuckoo
about the loss a reader feels when finishing- truly finishing- a series, or even a book. The inevitable pang of reaching that last page, growing worse while you’re skimming through the acknowledgements even though you aren’t really reading it, is so familiar to a devoted reader. Perhaps that’s why I went on a hiatus from reading; I found others ways to escape the world that didn’t have such a soul-wrenching feeling as the moment of hitting that last page, speed reading to see the end, then returning to it, reading each word again as if to confirm that it is indeed over and not just one of those half-hazed dreams that occur when your mind wanders while reading. Those who’ve never held reading close to their hearts can never understand the loss readers face- in those final moments, words, pages, chapters, covers, we are loosing a world, loosing characters that have become friends, enemies, lovers, we are loosing a bit of ourselves that can only be partially recovered (because, let’s face it, we’re never the same as when we first experienced the tale) as we re-read the book when we shut the book. Tears, hopes, dreams, hate, anger- we leave it all within the pages of the books, our stories become entangled with the characters’ we loose ourselves in. When readers…well…read, we become a part of a world that will never really be ours. Like splitting our souls hundreds of thousands of times, we create horcruxes out of our best of friends, books.
I actually wrote a poem about this.
I decided to make a blog separate from my personal in order to have a place where all my creative projects can live.
Here I will write short stories, draw mediocre art, post my photography, and attempt to sing and/or dance.
Enjoy what little talent I do have!
