I recently got a bookcase for my bedroom. It’s very tall, and it’s made of a very deep, dark-coloured wood. It was made in Indonesia and if you look carefully you can find all the nails holding it together poking out here and there. I put all my books in it, and on the bottom level I keep my vinyl records, and in the top corner I hide a black book.
I’m deadly scared of the things I wrote in there once, and if I think about it, or I go near it, the past comes back to haunt me, and I’m forced to deal with problems that I desperately want to avoid. I muse that the black book infects objects that lay near it. I recently wrote something into my battered old blue diary from year 12 that had been a couple of books from the top corner, and the curse was provoked and solved the problem I had divulged to the pages of September 13 and 14 with brutal irony.
I’ve got to do something to find some peace, I feel like a ghost just going through the motions of living - and have been for some months now. Faces, places, names, thoughts, feelings, I really hate bringing this kind of attention to myself but I honestly feel sick. There has to be some kind of potent drug one can take to give relief for irrational anxiety.
Come on Wordpress. Commiserate with me.