The Stacks lay on nearly every surface of my room –
Here the stockpile of theatre-improv-acting books
There a pile of trauma-informed therapy
OH and here is the neurodivergent mountain
Over here? the pile of healing your relationship with money.
Don’t forget the pretty books, the spooky ones,
The Gold leafed Pooh collection nestled between Neil Gaiman Illustrated and Cthulian nightmares
Carefully planned, barely controlled, chaos
a whirlwind of ideas and dreams and wonders.
Overlapping, expanding, and shrinking
with the swing of my moods and interests.
Loved and hated in equal measure.
Holding the possibility of knowledge,
the siren song of research,
the dopamine hit of something new and exciting.
The dust collected on regrets
The shiny new, the possibility wearing off
they become piles of admonition, guilt,
and sometimes even shame
In the halls of “things you can’t live with or without” my stacks of books are my one true nemesis that I also love beyond reason. They are so indicative of my bipolar brain and that makes them all the more beautiful and terrifying. This started out as a Hahaha look at all my books and really became something very helpful. That’s the power of writing y’all. #accidentaltherapysession