I feel as though I am floating, uncertain and alone. The tethers that once anchored me have come loose. The lines between the life others see, the books that I read and the stories that I write are becoming blurred. These are all my experiences, a part of what I am. How much of my life is real, how much imagined? An individual’s perception is his reality.
I wrote a piece last week about life on line. I wrote it as fiction and yet, when it was finished, I realised that I had created something personal. When I look at the life I am living it has lost its solidity.
I read books to escape from the rejection. I write to cope with the hurt. I no longer fit into the worlds of those around me. Now that my family has grown they have their own interests. They are kind to me, humour me but do not seem to understand what I am.
I am a ghost, not quite here. I drift through my days. I read and I write. I exist on the margins.
“I read books to escape from the rejection. I write to cope with the hurt.”
The greatest gifts we can gift to ourselves is permission to give in to reading and writing without worrying about reading the “correct” thing or writing the “Great Novel of Our Generation.” Glad you’re giving that gift to yourself.
Hi Jackie, thanks for your submission. If you’d like to participate in the voting and the writing contest, please remember to fill out the entry form: http://yeahwrite.me/yeah-write-november-writing-contest-entry-form/
I am so sorry that I forgot to do this again. Thank you for reminding me. Done now.
Reading and writing can truly be effective coping strategies through the difficult times.
I love the first stanza, especially “How much of my life is real, how much imagined?” because that is a question I ask regularly. How much of ‘me’ is me?
Just beautiful, so beautifully written. Somedays I have similar thoughts, I just don’t seem to register things, as if my life is detached from me and I am just watching it from afar. Take care. 🙂
You capture this fine line, this margin, so beautifully. Sometimes the books we read and the things we write can feel more solid than our reality.
“I exist on the margins” – deep thought and yet by writing this piece -you exist on the page. Don’t stop. Hang in there.