I couldn't keep away for more than five minutes.

I'm an English student but for the duration of my course I haven't read a single book. I went home last summer and I started reading more or less straight away. And this year, even after a week I'm emmersed in a book that was sat on shelf for more than a year in London, and I've excitedly compiled a books I'm itching to read over the coming months. For Time I am grateful; situation however, I am not. I read to escape. To lose touch with where I am, and use what time I have to learn and grow not through experience or interaction, but through reading (which I insist is a worthy contender).

I also stopped writing. But now I'm home and here I am. I've written a few poems too. I write because I feel repressed. In London I am not repressed. I am free. And I express myself with my body and through my decisions. I yearn to enagge with life to grab onto and hug it. Yes Hug ahaha. In Brewood I cannot make desicions. I have no power to, no space to.
All I have is the innards of my skull. It pains me; and through art we can turn pain into beauty. Meaning in a meaningless world blah blah blah...