I just spent the better part of two days reading Twilight. Tristan expressed an interest in reading it so i thought i'd better check it out first to see if it was appropriate for an almost twelve year old. (verdict? Undecided.)
In spite of myself that book sucked me in, back in, to this vortex of my youth. My sullied youth spent with died black hair, black eyeliner and pale, pale skin. I would spend hours hidden away in my room reading and listening to music. Not miserable, not happy. Melancholy. A melancholy fueled by sad songs and books that i lost myself in, completely. A good story sucks me in and alters my perception of reality. I become lost in this nether conscious that is not present and, somehow, not somewhere else. Just floating in the words of a story. Soaking them in and letting them pulse through my body.
My penchant for staying up late started when i was around ten years old. At that time i started having horrible nightmares and developed a deep fear of sleeping. More accurately; sleeping when it was dark. I would force myself to stay up until the sun began to break the night sky. I would read secretly in my closet with a small lamp. Tucked in a ball on the floor, doors closed, blankets tight around me. Over the years my fear of the dark subsided and i began to look forward to the long nights alone in my room with my favourite characters and words as company. My nightmares occurred less often, but were as intense as ever. My reaction to them turned from fear to anxiety. I still wake up mid panic several times a week. All the words and stories i have read over a lifetime crossing wires with my real life in nightmarish tales that leave my sleeping mind terrified.
Reading Twilight reminded me of those feelings. I wandered around work in a daze last night, looking forward to the quiet dark of the house upon my return. Digging right back in to the story and the blissfull state of not here or there.
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