I have been reading books like my life depends on it. In the past 6 days I have read 4 novels. Maybe my life does depend on it. Sometimes, suddenly, out of the blue, I feel tired and my bones ache. They physically ache all the time anyway. But in some of those times I become hyper aware of the pain, every pulse of blood through the veins a throb. Chronic pain is pretty shitty. And my back has been really bad for at least the past 7 years, and it is getting worse, or maybe my pain tolerance is going down. The garden variety hypochondriac that I am, I obviously have a gloom and doom explanation of pain tolerance going down: undiagnosed mayofascial pain syndrome transforming itself into fibromyalgia. There, take that doctors with degrees.
I have no explanation for the demons sitting on my shoulders though. The ghost of the future past: all the things that could have been, perhaps should have been, come back to me with vividity especially when I need to sleep. Between the pain and the vengeful past, sleep is rare. It does not help that I cannot stare slackjawed at a screen for hours till I snooze onto the laptop. And it doesn't help that I am largely just feeding the cats and cleaning their poop: not playing with them wholeheartedly or petting them. They know, and they are attention hungry and taking out their frustrations as only cats can do. But I am cocooned in my fug, too lethargic to muster the energy to reach out.
It's difficult to reach out, as some have pointed out. And I am not even depressed, just a maladjusted, perennially anxious person, playing at being a fierce independent adult. Or so I'm telling myself. Maybe I am just a drama queen (I mean I am, I know but is there anything more to what ails me than that?) Everything that had been easy 8 years ago seem so difficult now, as if the taint is in my blood (dramaaaa!) Well, my oldest friends are here within an arm's length: I have been reading books like my life depends on it, maybe it does.
PS: I have challenged myself to read 50 books this year on goodreads (it's not real if it's not on social media, people) and have managed to read 12 so far as far as I can recall. Goodreads informs me I'm 12 behind schedule. I have started reading Hide and Seek by Rankin this evening. Apparently he originally wanted to name it Hyde and Seek. Do I hide my Hyde well, dear reader?
I have no explanation for the demons sitting on my shoulders though. The ghost of the future past: all the things that could have been, perhaps should have been, come back to me with vividity especially when I need to sleep. Between the pain and the vengeful past, sleep is rare. It does not help that I cannot stare slackjawed at a screen for hours till I snooze onto the laptop. And it doesn't help that I am largely just feeding the cats and cleaning their poop: not playing with them wholeheartedly or petting them. They know, and they are attention hungry and taking out their frustrations as only cats can do. But I am cocooned in my fug, too lethargic to muster the energy to reach out.
It's difficult to reach out, as some have pointed out. And I am not even depressed, just a maladjusted, perennially anxious person, playing at being a fierce independent adult. Or so I'm telling myself. Maybe I am just a drama queen (I mean I am, I know but is there anything more to what ails me than that?) Everything that had been easy 8 years ago seem so difficult now, as if the taint is in my blood (dramaaaa!) Well, my oldest friends are here within an arm's length: I have been reading books like my life depends on it, maybe it does.
PS: I have challenged myself to read 50 books this year on goodreads (it's not real if it's not on social media, people) and have managed to read 12 so far as far as I can recall. Goodreads informs me I'm 12 behind schedule. I have started reading Hide and Seek by Rankin this evening. Apparently he originally wanted to name it Hyde and Seek. Do I hide my Hyde well, dear reader?
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