Stranger

Here it is again, that strange resentment for everything that surfaces every once in a while. Perhaps it's just PMS, but I find everything and everyone hateful.

I haven't been able to read in a while. Not because I don't have the time—people make time for things they really want to do—but because I can't. I'm looking at my books now, and they feel alien to me. I want to throw them one by one across the room, tear their pages, and burn them until they all evaporate into smoke. Why are they here? Why do I feel like they are not mine, that somewhere along the way, they have made me unworthy to peruse their pages?

The truth is, I want to be friends with my books again, to hold them and not feel rejected. But why do I feel this way? I miss reading so, so much...please, Lord, let me read again. Please.

I feel so lonely. Please...