Break-Down or Panic?

I was choking, asphyxiated by the blackness of the room. I was paralysed by the fear and I had no idea why.Next thing, tears were falling down my face. Had I reached my breaking point? Had the stress of the past few years and the fear of the unknown finally got to me? Or was it something different?

Let's start at the beginning, and find the way forward. Sleep hasn't been easy for the past week. The stormy weather had me on edge. The floods were not the scariest, it was the thunder, the lightning, the loneliness. I had to not freak out, I had to be strong for the children around me at the time. Yet soon as I was alone, I screamed. I cried. I panicked. I honestly thought it was the end.

That was 5 days ago. Now I can't sleep, for an unknown reason. My light stays on as a source of comfort, because the darkness freaks me out. I close my eyes, I see flashes of light. I open them and I'm paranoid of the shadows in my room. I even checked under the small gap in my bed. I've checked the closets, even the ones I have to reach by standing on a chair. All doors stay shut so I know if someone or something has been. Even cleaning my floordrobe hasn't helped. In fact it's made it worse. The little sleep I do get, it spoiled by the creakiness of my bed, or the constant tossing and turning. The constant fear of something going on while my eyes are closed.
Somehow, even through all of this, I still try to smile at work. I don't want them to know. I don't want them to know I'm breaking inside. I want to be happy and fun. I don't want to be the serious one. I don't want them to think its all attention seeking like "friends" have said in the past. I don't want them to know the ins and outs of my insanity.  They have already been dealt a crappy hand with my panic attacks over thunder.

I'm not sure if I'm breaking or just panicking. Maybe its just the lack of sleep that's driving me over the edge.  I just want to sleep. I want to wake up and feel happy on the inside.

Remember Caeser, thou art mortal

There are worse crimes than burning books. One of them is not reading them.

–Joseph Brodsky

Fahrenheit 451. A very compelling book that produces more questions than answers. 3 times I have read the book, turned over each page and still the questions are at the forefront of my mind. I blame my nature of being and English graduate. It is rather hard not to read such a book without analysing it, dissecting each chapter into tiny little segments of criticism.Without that, a true opinion cannot be formed. However, regardless of my inability to give my thoughts of the book, an entire new thought had been awoken - a world with out books. Books help us realise that we are not immortal but we can immortalise ideas, people, worlds with the use of words upon paper.

A world without books would be rather bleak. Imagination and creativity would no longer satisfy our thirst for sense or surrealism. Books serve a purpose, whether fiction or non-fiction, they give us life. They draw meaning to the world. Many writers want to transport you to another world, give you that escapism. Books make the bleak world around us much more colourful. They give you something to talk about, to dream about, even fall in love or hate with. Books give you knowledge and inspiration, the ability to create something of your own. You live the lives of each character, imagining how they look and feel just by looking at a few simple words.

To fear a book is understandable, it reflects your shame and ideas of the world around you.To stop others from reading proves the point that you have something to hide. Many books have been banned throughout the times, simply because they were too scandalous for that particular period. What if they were written just to prove a point. That your eyes needed to be open, you need to see the world for what it really is. To burn books because you are afraid, or to stop people reading something you wish for them not to see is not the way of life.

A world without books, would be bleak and boring. We would live in a world full of people following the same routine, joining the same profession, thinking the same thoughts. We would become machines of our own lives.

What would you choose? A book or machine?