[Had to write about a band-aid for an in-class writing exercise.
This is what I came up with.]
Throughout life, we get hurt emotionally just about as much as we get hurt physically. There are those minimal injuries that will mend with a band-aid and just a bit of time. Some need a bit of help from some aspirin to ease the pain or maybe antibacterial spray to stop a possible infection to the rest of our sanity, or even a bit of Neurosporin or some other Scar-Be-Gone product to forget that we were ever injured. A band-aid provides us with a barrier to protect the injury so we don’t make it worse. This is the barrier we put up when we are trying to have an emotional injury healed. We don’t even regard what happened to us. We continue our daily lives. Trying to forget that injury.Get distracted. But sometimes that barrier peels down a bit while we’re distracted. No worries though. Remember the other things we have to heal our wound? These are the people that love us, the people around us the things we love to do that distract us, the hope they provide. It might take a while, but things will get better. Wounds do heal. Eventually if taken care of.
Monday, September 26, 2011
Friday, September 16, 2011
Slacking
Eh, yes I realize I've been a tad-bit behind on posting...okay a lot behind. But I will do my best to remain more consistent. It's not like I don't have anything to post, I've just been caught up with some other things. And hopefully soon enough, someone will actually care about what I have to say, if not, well at least I have myself as fan, right?
{crickets chirping...}
Well, that just a little FYI note. But stay tuned and enjoy :)
{crickets chirping...}
Well, that just a little FYI note. But stay tuned and enjoy :)
Overdosing on books
A combination of the dim streetlight and moonlight’s gleam broke through the shades and onto the off-white, Times New Roman-patterned, pages. I had lost track of time after my father bid us goodnight and switched off the light. He had tucked us in bed, my sister and me, as he reminded me it was time to sleep and put my book away. I obligingly set the book aside and continued to put up the show that I was exhausted and ready for bed. In the darkness of the night, my ears remained alert. Next to me, my sister was fast asleep; the teeth grinding had begun. I tiptoed across the room and rested my ear against the door and litened for signs of activity. Two distinct loud snores came from across the hall, from my parents bedroom. I remained still as night until I was completely convinced that the coast was clear. On my way back to bed, I took my treasure from the night stand and happily flopped onto bed. It was just me, my pillow under my chest, and Roald Dahl’s Matilda.
I rarely read a book in more than one sitting, and although I had spent the day, aborbing as much as I could, I could not bear tear myself from the plot when I had it right there, in front of me. I would keep my book hostage from the moment I’d take possesion of it. Whether it was from the library or my own collection of unread books, which weren’t many, I would not put the book down until I was bored, which rarely occurred altogether or literally falling asleep against my will. I would often get in trouble with my parents when I would spent most of the day reading. Sometimes, they would catch me reading in the wee hous of the morning. This ritual occurred throughout a great part of my childhood and well onto my teenhood. In fact, from time to time, I still fall asleep with my books in bed.
I don’t like not doing something “productive”, so at times when I’m reading, I feel guilty for spending the whole day reading it away rather than doing the chores I am responisible for or helping with something around the house as I am used to. Books are my drug. They make me paranoid and lazy, but only while I’m reading them. If I hear so much as the doorknob moving or footsteps headed toward my room, I scramble to hide my book, throw it under the bed or hide it in my pillowcase under my pillow. I’ve been caught a couple times but all my parents do now is laugh and shake there head in disbelief. Occasionally I would go out to the living room, make an appeareance at the dinner table, but never without my book. My parent’s, particularly my dad, always questioned me as to what it was these books were doing for me. My dad has always been a bit more “practical” or so he thinks. Sometimes, I would try to get him involved in the plot by describing what was going on in the story, illustrate what I saw, but at the end he would not see the point of it. It wasn’t that he was against reading stories and books, but as he spent most of his childhood and adult life working, he tends to see things as how they will personally benefit us. And part of the reason that I think his opinion towards my reading is this way is because I do it excessively. I am glad to say that I have become better at taking books in slightly smaller doses… at least, I try. Although my mother and father still give me that look from time to time when they see me reading Pride & Prejudice for the third time, or going through the Harry Potter books for the umpteenth time or reading any other book for the matter, they have never been angered or upset about it. They just simply do not understand the power these books, these stories have over me. They don’t understand the places they take me, the characters I meet. At times, they jokes about banning books from the house and I will retort ”You know, there are parents out there who wish they had children that read like me.” Even though my father won’t admit it straight out, he compares me to his own mother who loved to read and this is more than enough for me to recognize he’s extremely proud of my accomplishments as an avid reader.
I rarely read a book in more than one sitting, and although I had spent the day, aborbing as much as I could, I could not bear tear myself from the plot when I had it right there, in front of me. I would keep my book hostage from the moment I’d take possesion of it. Whether it was from the library or my own collection of unread books, which weren’t many, I would not put the book down until I was bored, which rarely occurred altogether or literally falling asleep against my will. I would often get in trouble with my parents when I would spent most of the day reading. Sometimes, they would catch me reading in the wee hous of the morning. This ritual occurred throughout a great part of my childhood and well onto my teenhood. In fact, from time to time, I still fall asleep with my books in bed.
I don’t like not doing something “productive”, so at times when I’m reading, I feel guilty for spending the whole day reading it away rather than doing the chores I am responisible for or helping with something around the house as I am used to. Books are my drug. They make me paranoid and lazy, but only while I’m reading them. If I hear so much as the doorknob moving or footsteps headed toward my room, I scramble to hide my book, throw it under the bed or hide it in my pillowcase under my pillow. I’ve been caught a couple times but all my parents do now is laugh and shake there head in disbelief. Occasionally I would go out to the living room, make an appeareance at the dinner table, but never without my book. My parent’s, particularly my dad, always questioned me as to what it was these books were doing for me. My dad has always been a bit more “practical” or so he thinks. Sometimes, I would try to get him involved in the plot by describing what was going on in the story, illustrate what I saw, but at the end he would not see the point of it. It wasn’t that he was against reading stories and books, but as he spent most of his childhood and adult life working, he tends to see things as how they will personally benefit us. And part of the reason that I think his opinion towards my reading is this way is because I do it excessively. I am glad to say that I have become better at taking books in slightly smaller doses… at least, I try. Although my mother and father still give me that look from time to time when they see me reading Pride & Prejudice for the third time, or going through the Harry Potter books for the umpteenth time or reading any other book for the matter, they have never been angered or upset about it. They just simply do not understand the power these books, these stories have over me. They don’t understand the places they take me, the characters I meet. At times, they jokes about banning books from the house and I will retort ”You know, there are parents out there who wish they had children that read like me.” Even though my father won’t admit it straight out, he compares me to his own mother who loved to read and this is more than enough for me to recognize he’s extremely proud of my accomplishments as an avid reader.
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