[Depression] Day 4: 0045H, 062208. A bottle of jagged little pills*
July 1, 2008I’m a bookworm. Maybe it’s because my rather active imagination allows me to visualize what’s happening with great alacrity. Or because the author’s storytelling is quite good and engaging. But most likely it’s just because books offer me a cheap, reusable, cost-efficient way to escape this world. Books are my drugs, my painkillers, my booze, my sleeping pills. They make me forget about the crap of this world. They distract me from the pain. They help me sleep. They give me focus. They make me laugh. They challenge my mind. They make me happy. They tickle my imagination. They fill voids you never knew was there. They transport me to world I never did know was there.
The sad part is, these books of mine are just poor placeholders for you. Nothing more than pale imitations I put up to cover up the void that you once occupied. Nothing more than lousy placebos I have to drink else I’ll go into full withdrawal, where a single nudge is enough to push me off the edge.
Sadder still, my mind knows the futility of it all.
(A/N: * - From an Alanis Morrisette song. The only good-tasting medicine I know of are that strawberry-flavored Ventolin syrup and that Flintstone chewable vitamins from so long ago. Nowadays, medicine will kill you before it makes you well.)
