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Anada 159
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. a n a d a 1 5 9 0 9 - 2 0 - 0 0
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. . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . "Massah Smith Been Dead Fo'
. . . . . . . . . . Years Now"
. . . . . . . . . . . . . .
by Em
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It all started with a book. I don't remember which one... something
by Steinbeck I think. Of Mice and Men? East of Eden? I don't know. It
progressed. I was addicted. I made my way through the shelves--consuming.
This was all in my parents living room, five years ago, it seems as if it's
been forever. It hasn't.
It all started with the books. Too many of them to recall...
something by Ginsberg, Thompson, Vonnegut? Hemingway? I don't know. It
progressed. I fed my addiction. I kept going, doing anything for just
another word. This was here, in my room. It is now, it seems as if too,
has been forever. It hasn't.
Books were a portal into... somewhere else. An escape?
I'd have never opened the first book if I'd have known. Of course
I'd -read- before. But I'd never stopped to think. My eyes had been closed
while I read, for all those years. If I'd have known I would of burned the
book... I would of given it to someone I hated. Let them learn what our
situation is. I have no compassion or sympathy for 'the human condition.'
I envy it. If I could find happiness in ignorance I would. I used to be
able to do that.
I
Was
One
of
Them.
And I wish I still was. But I can't be. I've gone too far to
return.
I'd kill myself if suicide wasn't so trendy.
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. anada 159 by em (c)2000 anada e'zine .
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