god's book

I didn't have the confidence to prosefully relay why I exactly it was that I collected what I did as I laid out the composition book, innocuous enough were it not for the curious scrawl of 'gods book' on the label.  My study of objects was almost anthropological, though much more intimately compelled, a personal study in connection. I realized then as he flipped through the book that it might come across as strange but I was relieved to see academic fascination relay over his features, the clinical appreciation I'd initially anticipated mirroring my own sentiment towards the book. "wow" He'd said as he thumbed through the childlike script, colored pen harshly indenting the page with the author's misery. A tragic story, really. 

I reflected on my own awkwardness as I looked in the mirror, the body before me, the fruition of prayers written on bay leaves and burned on a shrine of my own personal will, not matching the scarred schemas I was plagued with. The body of a woman, the eyes and mind of the reclusive girl I had been out of necessity. Despite the war being over, I am fortified. 

"I always see you around campus but you always have your headphones in" 

How starting it is to know that you're perceived, noticed, when you tersely walk with your eyes glued to the pavement or the sky as if evading an enemy. Is the world really so hostile as I make it? Or am I simply afraid to renter it after evading it for so long, instead retreating into my own internal landscape of harmless (yet daunting) stimuli where I am safe but lacking, so terribly and utterly alone. What is it to be ordinary and unafraid, for eye contact to not be soul crushingly intimate? I'll never know as the veteran of my own private battles that have left me scarred and stilted, the youthfulness of my face not haunting enough to offset the awkwardness of my disposition and averted gaze.