Monday, March 21, 2011
I have lots of books. I go to the public library regularly. (It's the only public institution that I truly love and have no complains about.) I read everyday. When my interest in books wanes, it means some thing's not going right. When my interest in reading becomes some thing akin to a lifeline, things aren't peachy as well. Especially when I start reading my whole Susan Elizabeth Phillips collection. I swear, if this lady does not/ cannot write any longer, I think a part of my soul will wither. Sounds melodramatic? Well my feelings about her books are overwhelming. There's no other way I can put it that will do her justice.
Right now, I should be asleep. But all I can think about is how I feel like such a stranger. Questions and half-baked theories and rationalisations are circling in my head. I have always tried, though there are times I don't succeed, in trying to be fair in how I see others. I try not to judge. I truly do. I have revised my opinions before and found that I actually like the person I had once written off. It's happened this semester, again. But at the same time, I think I have lost and/or didn't end up forming friendships I thought would happen. I see them doing stuff together and I feel left out. Just a little. Like I was never there to begin with.
And Saturday, I don't know what happened when I said it. I was surprised I even said it. No matter how hard I tried rationalising it, the emotions got ahead of me. Way faster than the brain could catch up. And nothing I did could quell the onslaught. It was like I couldn't think and all I could feel was every injustice, real or imagined, building up and it just burst out. I cannot imagine anyone else understanding my brand of crazy and still stick it out with me. In the last year or so, I have tried pushing him to the edge just to see how he'd react, if he'd leave and he hasn't. Very terrifying.
Moral of my stories: the pre-frontal cortex has obviously not developed to its adult size in my case.
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