I don't like being imprisoned in my supposed home. This is not my home though, per say. This is someone else's home - my grandmother's - and I am just living in it. Today of all days I am reminded of that, as I sit here, in my room, unable to leave it - my mother is sitting as a guard at the top of the staircase. She stands in my way then asks if I'll knock her down the stairs to get own them. She calls me a Godless Wonder; says I have a fat a**; that I am halfway ear what my aunt looks like (as it were, my aunt is "big and beautiful," I daresay). It is terrible. I feel terrible and wonder how I will ever be able to be happy again, as I was at Oxford. How can I stay happy? This all occurred to me because my father told mother that I ate lamb at a non-kosher restaurant. It was not kosher. I wonder if I should post this on some website. Religion of good, experiences - yours - cannot speak for religion in its entirety, they tell me. But, perhaps, secularism's influence of your experience, I think now, has made you experience as harmless at religion seems to be (to you and you). But you don't know what it feels like. You also think that books don't have much meaning. But you don't know. Don't know lots of things - like what it means to be validated by a book, vindicated, and best of all, enlightened. The meaning breathes - not literally, right? - life into things, gives me meaning of the most transient sense. Then, you - do you know what it feels like to sit there, in someone else's home, and be threatened - you cannot have this or that or college of school or Oxford unless you give up your books? Give them to us now. I try not to cry - they must not see my anguish. I must not feel it, for if I do, then they will know that by touching my books, my journeys, vindications, feelings, and rights, that they are hurting me very much. They must not feel triumph in it. I feel anguish, angst, for where can I hide my beloved books? I hide them with my cousins, not with me. I say that they will be in my heart, forever. Yet I am lost without them - I cry, I cry. You don't understand, these things know me, they do not judge me - they laugh at hysteria, these brave heroes of yesterday and today. What will be tomorrow? They call it silliness, so I try I try to do the same. But this feeling - the sharp pain in my heart that wrenches it t-wards my stomach..I cry when nobody looks. I want to be happy. Why do you care if I ear meat or cheese or pasty of cookie? It doesn't effect your stomach. Why do you scream at my father and sit by the steps, pushing my so that I walk past you and you say your arm as now broken because of me? Why say this? Why do you throw Aleithia's book to the floor? It crashes on the floor like this: book-phhf - crashed. And I watch. Hysteria, religion, schizophrenia. I must laugh. Then cry, cry. Please I whimper on paper, silently, beneath a triumphant facade, do not, do not, please harm my self my books it hurts me so very much. If you will, and I shall never eat that meat again.