Oh Literature....

I do two things when I get upset--sleep, or write.  Both never produce much, except for an improvement in my mood and maybe a few scribbled pages of angst, but this time was different.  I wrote the piece below when I was frustrated, and it ended up taking an unexpected turn, for the better, ending on a much lighter note. I hope you find something you can connect with :)

Stop. No one gave you permission to play with my feelings.  In fact, I'm the only one even capable of giving you such permission, and this I do not recall.  Yes, I'm talking to you old friend, whose sudden reappearance on Facebook reignites old scars buried deep.  The beginning of tears well up in my eyes. I blink them back.  No, not today.  I'm also addressing you, media, with your rampant rom-coms and make out scenes, romances that create a restless yearning in my chest despite their staged quality.  And you literature.  Mere words should not possibly have the power to make me angry to the point of screaming, confused to the point of pondering in silence for hours.  Yes, literature is the cruelest form of art.  The writer knows exactly the kind of pain he inflicts on his reader, but willingly writes on.  And the reader knows exactly the kind of pain he inflicts upon himself, but willingly reads on.  So maybe I did give you permission, literature, but that doesn't mean you're not screwing me over.