November 6, 2011
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Playing different scenes in my mind, sometimes the same ones over and over again. Thinking about the past and future I want. Never wanting to ponder on the present infront of me. If I'm going crazy then so be it. How would I survive without my imagination running wild? It's what keeps me going on days I can't bare to face. Sometimes they go too far, but who I to stop them? I feel as if I can't control my mind. Nor do I want to. The stories I read aren't stories, when I'm reading them it becomes my life. I feel everything the characters feel and it doesn't bother me.

I enjoy feeling something other than my real emotions. Reading is what I do to escape the world I no longer want to acknowledge. It takes me all over, into other peoples houses and lives, which in time become my life. My imagination is something I doubt I'd be able to live without.

People seem strange to me, and after a while I lose touch of how to communicate or act around them. I'm not sure if that makes me a freak? or weird? But its what I feel. I can talk to my family and be polite to others, but it's not like before. I struggle to cry. It happens rarely nowadays. I can smile, laugh, be sad, be moody or even depressed, but ass soon as I'm reading a book, I just lose myself.

Reading is what I do to escape and I plan on leaving it that way.

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