hereI tried to let go of the reins. To stop pondering things for a while and not to give them a second thought.
So many times I tried to pen down these insomnia induced thoughts, but I felt that words alone would do them no justice. I could not think of any proper means to muffle the voice of my soul. I refrained myself from any outward expression thinking this would only amplify how I felt at that time.
Writing things down gives me power upon my thoughts: I can disguise them, distort the meaning behind them and keep a lot of their intentions under wraps. But it felt like something was stuck in my throat of late, like having this big urge to write without being able to: words seemed to be melting into some kind of stringent indefiniteness whenever I tried to take grip on them. I've come even to ask myself if there mightn’t be some kind of subconscious power interfering with my conscious self that prevents me from giving these mingling emotions an outlet they so crave!
Thus, instead of looking desperately for “active” means of possible outer relief , I considered indulging myself in passive leisure for a while, an opportunity to bask in sheer reading pleasure that never fails to enchant me and revive my senses whenever I'm on the verge of numbness.
I realized I just needed to immmerse myself in some imaginary world, a fictitious story whose characters I can identify with and whose emotions I can relate to, an illusiory reality where the outer world would cease to exist and where I'd be immune to the vicissitudes of my petty existence; and I can only reach this state of serenity and inner contentment through reading.
Words alone have the power to make every preoccupying matter dwindle to smaller proportions. I feel that their meanings carry all the power and magnificience I need to experience and I know that some of this magic is being conveyed to me by the mere act of reading.
So many times I tried to pen down these insomnia induced thoughts, but I felt that words alone would do them no justice. I could not think of any proper means to muffle the voice of my soul. I refrained myself from any outward expression thinking this would only amplify how I felt at that time.
Writing things down gives me power upon my thoughts: I can disguise them, distort the meaning behind them and keep a lot of their intentions under wraps. But it felt like something was stuck in my throat of late, like having this big urge to write without being able to: words seemed to be melting into some kind of stringent indefiniteness whenever I tried to take grip on them. I've come even to ask myself if there mightn’t be some kind of subconscious power interfering with my conscious self that prevents me from giving these mingling emotions an outlet they so crave!
Thus, instead of looking desperately for “active” means of possible outer relief , I considered indulging myself in passive leisure for a while, an opportunity to bask in sheer reading pleasure that never fails to enchant me and revive my senses whenever I'm on the verge of numbness.
I realized I just needed to immmerse myself in some imaginary world, a fictitious story whose characters I can identify with and whose emotions I can relate to, an illusiory reality where the outer world would cease to exist and where I'd be immune to the vicissitudes of my petty existence; and I can only reach this state of serenity and inner contentment through reading.
Words alone have the power to make every preoccupying matter dwindle to smaller proportions. I feel that their meanings carry all the power and magnificience I need to experience and I know that some of this magic is being conveyed to me by the mere act of reading.
Books also inspire me to write whenever I'm lacking inspiration. They make me believe that everything deserves to be transcribed; that the slightest perceptible feeling, the most unexpected insight carries a message for us and is worth being remembered.
I know I tend to feel things too intensely at times that my heart starts racing and pounding like it might jump out of my chest, but I know as well that I can survive the burst of emotions within me. My heart may be lacking the space to contain them all but my mind will always find means of eventual evacuation.
My cutting words and hasty answers reassure me of my own sanity, they are the shield I won't drop unless granted safety. That's what I am, Sometimes just striving to have a normal reaction or to repress emotions showing up at completely inappropriate times. I may be acutely conscious of the absurdity of my feelings, but they'll still be here, welling up within me, invading the serenity of my soul, and threatening to make my face crumple into some conspicuously ill-bred expression.
Guess what I'm doing right now? I'm trying to be "normal"... by my own standards :)
What is blaring in my ears:
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