I’m the kind of girl who uses birthday and christmas cards as bookmarks even if they’re twice the size of the pocket book I’m reading. I keep them simply for the memory. Most of the time they hold no meaningful content. Words as shallow as the connections I hold with their authors although oftentimes we pretend they run deeper.
I used to avoid and escape this darkness through the vice my grandmother taught me: reading. But lately I’ve redirected the funds I typically would use ordering books online to purchase more lethal distractions. Xanax, acid, molly, ketamine, shrooms, and Vicodin to name a few.
My books are now housed in a metal box with a steel lock on it thirty minutes away. Connects reside a few doors down.
Shallow are the interactions and experiences I have with those around me. As shallow as buying a card. Drugs helped me see that. I have few actual friends. Many of these people only pretend to know me.