How far from the past.

I asked my mom where all my old books were, and she told me. So I decided to go take a look after all this while … after too long, really …

All my books from my childhood … most of them belonged to my dad. And most of them, probably too inappropriate for a child to be reading. But them being the only books I could get my hands on at that age, I didn’t let that stop me.

All the books I furiously went through during my growing up … as if I was looking for something specific, but keeping everything I was coming across with me, just in case. And it’s all stuck, even if you can’t see it. But it’s all I consist of.

Books whose pages will fall apart in a few more years. But I really hope they don’t. They smell like … they smell like years and years of knowledge. Information. Tales of human suffering, love, triumph, revenge, happiness … and my childhood, of course. All of it.

The pages have turned several shades of brown, and the dust sticks to your fingertips. I sat there, smiling. And I don’t know why I was smiling, but I was. I just sat there staring at them for a while. Then running my fingers through all of them … and as many pages as I could. And then flipping through the pages, and sniffing the insides. –sigh-

I remember reading this detective novel about a murder. The Screaming Virgin, it was called, I think. Because it started with a naked female standing on a rooftop, screaming.  I think I was 13 or 14 when I read it. Yeah.

All my old encyclopedias. Colorful books, with drawings I did inside. Ruined them, pretty much. But read them while ruining them, so it kinda worked out. Cooking books I used to stare inside as a child. I used to stare into any book you hand me. For hours and hours. Because they were the only things I really owned when I was little.

I would lay on the floor and stare inside a book, every other day. Sometimes the same one, over and over again.

Now my mind is occupied with things that don’t matter as much. A part of growing up to nothingness I guess. We all do it, don’t we?

I’m diagnosed with ADHD by the way. Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder. In case you don’t already know. You probably do.

Add that to the list.

I’m going to go insane, I can see it now. I just hope it takes some time.

I have started tumbling. I guess, that’s what it should be called? Here’s my Tumblr.

Sitting down with all my old books in my hands, I felt like the Danish I seem to have lost somewhere down the road.

You know, the optimist that thought the world was a happy place. Where you should be all right as long as you treat everyone all right.

Yeah, the Danish who had his eyes closed just like all the sheeple of the world. Like what I did there? I’m going to do it more often, just a heads up. Sheep, People, Sheeple.

Life was comfortable, with my eyes closed. I didn’t fear going insane. I didn’t have this burden in my hand. I didn’t have much to think about.

The knowing is driving me insane. Holding me down, being my burden. Making me lose sleep, all the thinking.

I saw American Psycho a few hours ago. Patrick Bateman reminded me of myself so much. You should see the movie, if you haven’t already.

I’m deviating. Going to blame it on ADHD. And, uh, have nothing else to say, really. I wanted to blog so bad but I just couldn’t get myself to. Then it just happened. This just happened. I’m glad.

I’m glad you’re reading this, too. Thank you. You’re pretty much one of the reason I do all this. The other reason is me, myself. For the sake of sanity. Or maintaining whatever I have left of it.

~ Much love. Danish Arif.