I am engulfed.
A feeling all too familiar yet completely unknown swallows me whole.
The longing for the comfort of the soft pages deeply effects my life.
I miss the blanket of intrigue that was so carefully draped around me, instead I am smothered by a quilt of pain and such a deep feeling of melancholy it makes me squirm with claustrophobia under this duvet of what seems an empty and unexciting life.

This feeling, though completely inexplicable is one of a cycle that I seem to have entered many years ago not knowing that it would eventually and irrevocably destroy every bit of the humanity I was allotted, which wasn’t much to begin with.

This lack of sense inside me grows every time I attempt to shrink it with more and more of this drug until I eventually desensitize myself to all manner of human plights.

But in an attempt to repair my soul and piece back together the shattered pieces of my heart I jump, and am swept up in another spin in this vicious cycle that I’m locked in.

A book. A new book, a new wonderland and once again I give into the craving for the tangible and intangible parts of the lust and lure of the beautiful words.

Once again I am engulfed.
Wrapped in a blanket of intrigue, but a sense of dread overcomes me, for I know that when I arrive at the end of this book I will be greeted with the quilt of longing that will suffocate me once more. Breaking my already unrecognizable soul into smaller pieces still.