Attempted Kidnapper Arrested
I don't know if this has anything to with the rest of the stories I've seen, but at least I don't feel like I'm going crazy anymore. At least not as much. I've been reading House of Leaves and, combined with a lack of sleep, shit's been getting weird. For example, today I kind of zoned out while sitting on my bed. Pretty soon, I noticed the walls were wobbling. Of course they stopped when I focused my eyes back but I still was a little nervous for a second that the floor was going to drop away and eat me. It didn't help that this morning when I woke up I heard a loud, heavy bang, dull and powerful as if ancient gods were attempting to burst their way to freedom through my bedroom ceiling. Obviously Mr. Truant is having some kind of effect on my prose...
Guidelines for House of Leaves:
If you are prone to hallucinations (visual or aural), don't read it.
If you don't sleep much, don't read it.
If you are easily scared by mindfucks, don't read it.
Just in general, don't read it.
Not that it's bad. No, in fact it's great. A wonderful work of art. Just don't read it. It isn't worth the thoughts that leap out of your brain, wondering if there's some thing around the corner ready to envelop you in its ink dark embrace. I don't think I'll ever view basements the same way again.
But perhaps I'm overreacting. It is, after all, just a book. A book much like the House it contains. The House that it is. Full of branching hallways and dark, endless corridors that stretch through the imagination only to slam shut, ending the suspense with broken bones and a longing for answers to questions that were never asked - questions that were never found - questions that never were.
Not quite on topic, but I find it applicable.
odi et amo. quare id faciam fortasse requiris.
nescio. sed fieri sentio et excrucior.
But I refer not to a woman. No, not a woman, but the twisting, tortuous pathways of the mind, full of everything and yet empty and bare for their physical absence.