September 11, 2008 3 comments Article
…I think I must have mentioned/wrote about it before. Its back, and dangerous, eating away and carving out hollows somewhere deep in yourself, but you don’t exactly know where. What is frustrating is that it doesn’t take much to make it reappear, and yet, sometimes, you feel as if you are made of the hardest stone, one that even the most furious of water can’t whittle away, when it matters the most that you should feel the way you’re feeling now. A book, a related tale, a real life story, happening to the people you didn’t think you were that close to even though you know you should be, and it takes that much to realise that they actually are close to you. You were just the one who always pulled away.
Wandering around, hiding, glazing over things that you see, thinking, and yet, not thinking. Absorbing and not processing. Processing and not remembering. Moving on from what was important to something utterly not.
473, of The Pact. A friend once told me people look for pieces of themselves in songs and books. A line, a paragraph, a verse, that they think can accurately describe what they are feeling, even though it may be the most abstract of phrases. I didn’t think it was true until I started doing the same. The melodies and prose articulating what you yourself struggle to put your finger on, or what you yourself search for deep inside your soul, wondering if you’ll ever find it, name it, and if you do, would you have the guts to do anything about it?