I’ve never been in control of my feelings.
They drop on me like a pile of bricks.
And I am too weak to carry them. They overtake me.
The only thing in the world that is powerful enough to give me respite:
Is a good book.
I become lost in the story, and I can forget my pain.
I am enabled to leave this world and enter a happier one.
But now I read the same few comforting novels over and over.
Because I am terrified of reading ones that I can’t immerse myself in.
Terrified that my one means of escape will prove as pointless and empty as real life.