Fall semester freshman year was sunshine and daisies. New friends who literally lived right next door, all the free (read: pre-paid for by my tuition) food I could cram into my face, and classes that, while challenging, were comparable to high school? Sounds like paradise. Sure, when exams cropped up I shouldered my fair share of stress, but I quickly forgot it as I dove headfirst into college life.
My blissful bubble didn’t last long before it burst.
Dive off the blocks and into the sea of letters. A world of black and white where grey is a figment of your imagination, where the power of the written word is all you need to float onward, onward, into the bliss of oblivion.
Journal your life away. Too overwhelmed to live, too scared to love: hole up in a little den with paper and ink and plaster the walls with your scribbling. Papers, the palimpsest of a life. Scrape away reality to make room for the fiction.
Reality hurts. Its razor-sharp edges chip away what little sanity I have left. Maybe if I scurry away between the leather-bound pages and wrap myself tight in the parchment, it won’t find me. Safe and secure, never breathing, never dying, constant as the text on the page, I’ll be protected. Fiction my stronghold, fantasy my rampart, I’ll exist, and persist until the ink fades and blank pages remain. Clean, pure, and whole, without worry or regret or fear, simply…