Okay, so it's not exactly Sunday night if you want to be completely and anal retentively accurate, but it's definitely the night that follows Sunday. But, I digress...
... there must be something pathologically wrong with me somehow, like I'm how I'm allergic to carbonated drinks. However, that's psychosysmatic, but maybe it crosses over into the pathological as well. Or maybe it's all just psychological and I'm just mixing up terms. *shrugs* I'm once again straying from the subject at hand. Mayhaps it's due to the [latest] Linkin Park album that's playing on the stereo that is messing up my thought process. Or maybe it's caused by being sick, down with the fever, flu and its kin.Oh, by heck, who am I kidding? Excuses, excuses, by any other name...
Getting back on track, I think it must be pathological or psychological, this unusual occurences of being absorbed by the novels that I read, so much so that I feel that I am somehow involved yet unable to act or interfere in events, mentally screaming my self hoarse. Just like life, sometimes. But, it's getting worse as it takes longer and longer to get a story out of my system, which also results in a spike in my smoking and nervous "twitches", as virtual "memories" of the stories pop up in my mind. Like a ghost coming back to haunt its old roost. *shudders* And not so much of twitches as shivers, like someone ran a dead cold, numbing hand down your back and you're left wondering wether there was a scalpel attached to the said hand. Brrr~....
And, alarmingly, I tear through books at an alarming rate as I usually end up finishing thick novels in roughly a day or two. Cripes. So, you can just imagine how many stories are jammed up in my head, crammed in with all the random bits that comprise the contents of the vaults of my mind.
I wonder if I'm alone in this kind of strange suffering. Well, not suffering, per se, but albeit strange circumstance. Or is it a subconscious reaction, to lose one's self in stories, the worlds of fantasies and vivid imagination, just to escape the mundane and banal existence that we eke out in reality?
Well, no matter the answer, I know that my sleep tonight will be plagued by the visage of a young cherry-red-haired French girl who hung herself with a nylon strap from her backpack.
GODDAMMIT.
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