Empty Shelves
19 Nov 2011 2 Comments
I’ve been having a lot of trouble pinning down how I’ve been feeling, mostly because I haven’t been feeling all that much. It’s just bad.
Anyway, I thought a bit about it this morning; I feel like an empty bookshelf.
(Only follow the -more- if you don't mind reading brain mush. It's a bit twattish.)
Not a nice oak self-standing specimin. No, one of those crappy ones that a librarian uses to wheel books from one end of the library to the other. Except I’m even less use than that, because my castors are broken. So I’m just standing somewhere, not quite fitting in.
I therefore have no real reason. No purpose. I try to accumulate books, things that show that I have a purpose. I am the Sunshine Shelf. But it’s still pretty empty. I’ve got the medical dictionary and Kumar and Clarks on the middle shelf. On the bottom shelf there’s a norwegian-english dictionary. There are a couple of CDs. The DSM-IV-TR is also on there, weighing down the top shelf. There’s a random book on anarchy, but that’s been kicked under the shelves. On the top there are also a couple of Photo albums of me and my boyfriend.
But what use is a bookshelf with 9 books on it? I don’t know enough about anything of value. Notice that there are no films? I don’t watch enough, so people talk about films they’ve seen and I have to phase out. I am such a pointless waste of space, those books have better places to be, really.
That started to get a bit convoluted, but I think I got the idea across. I feel empty. I have no identity. I’m not a person, so I don’t care. No matter how hard I try to become a person, I will always meet a real person with real values and real passions, and I am reminded how little of a person I am. I am a void. An emotionless gap in the world. I’m such a fucking nothing.
I just don’t know how to deal with it. I’m not really getting angry, or sad, or happy. It’s just nothing. The peak of emotionality is coming from sheer self-hatred – and you know what? That probably doesn’t even count as emotion.
What the fuck is wrong with me? I don’t understand. I’m just stuck. Completely stuck. This nothingness is inhibiting me from doing what I need to do. It’s preventing me from existing.
However, I’m notorious for living in the present. I have no idea how long I’ve been feeling like this. It may have been from the beginning of the summer. It may have been since last week. Nonetheless, it feels all consuming and damning.
Nov 19, 2011 @ 12:29:42
Just because you don’t have a lot of books on your shelf/self doesn’t mean you’re empty or worthless.
The importance of a book is what it means to you. They represent things you’ve experienced in your life. It’s not about quantity but quality.
I think the photo albums would be worth a lot more than you think. They say a picture is worth a thousand words afterall.
Jan 07, 2012 @ 15:27:11
thank you, it’s good to see it’s not just me…