literary nonsense

'you didn't have to cannibalise your best friend for survival, the door was unlocked the entire time!' can be a feeling if i feel it. no real cannibalism, of course, but the belittling along with the severity of the action is certainly relatable. i just knew the basement door was open. i 'cannibalised' a fictional best-friend for survival.

in the centre of my brain, there is a library of poets, 20th century philosophers, Feelings We Should All Know By This pOint, the printed collections of scrambled written confessions belonging to various celebrities that the press never wants you to hear about, and so much more. the issue with this is that every book is organised on the top shelf.

every now and again, there is an eruption; 'an earthquake', and a book or two fall down for me to read. They tell me how to think, behave, and tell me what to say.

the quakes used to be tremendous, almost like real natural disasters in my head. i had books fall onto me every day to every week for years, and because these books have so much power over me, i became unable to act as a result. i would stare silently, endlessly, at those kind to me. being covered in everything i was supposed to understand about heroes and villians, i assumed myself the most common role— the hero— and everyone else the villian. however, the real issue layed in having no motives for this.

now when an eruption happens, i understand it less. PAST eruptions, i still don't get.