(essay)

She did not like to read. Don’t get me wrong. She liked the process, she liked to bathe in words, understand them, steal thoughts from the book and shackle their themes in her slightly sick imagination.

After reading it, for some time, she couldn’t feel normal within the space around her. Time and space were erased and there were only other writers’ thoughts. And how about her own personality? Why should she stuff her brains with all this freaky fiction creepy rubbish?

Oh, how she loved and hated them. Thoughts, like people, are different. There are light and positive, difficult and depressed, appalling and aggressive… But the greatest irritation was brought by incomprehensible and strange thoughts… You know, those who are joyfully inadequate, suicidal and happy, sadistic and hilarious, and those whom I call ‘partly fever’ or ‘in the fog with a mixture of smoke causing laughter and pepper spray.’ After that, you don’t know what to feel and what to think about, because you have become either a pensive philosopher or an ordinary-nunuhead-nooto psycho.

Once she wondered if the imagination really worked with what hadn’t happened or didn’t exist at that time. Was there ever in reality something that was born in her completely unstable brain? What literature to read to stay healthy?