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I’m escaping. The silence has become unbearable.  I have lots of ideas why I’m escaping. I have many plausible theories that might be sufficient for a psychologist or the impartial Observer of all human affairs as to why.

I know what I’m doing. Know it but can’t control it. I know how to analyse escapism while seeming rationale and calm. It’s just (what an innocuous word ‘just’) that this time I don’t care to stay in control so much.

Explanations don’t pacify the worrying voice in my mind. And it does worry me: when silence becomes unbearable I know that I’m listening to the death in my inner universe. The doctor that explains why you’re dying does nothing to give satisfaction. Explanations don’t matter.

I’ve plunged into a story book world to escape. Escape by escapism. Turning Rebus’ life into my own. Drowning myself in analysing his trials and tribulations. Charting the days by the progress of his investigations, the page count of the latest chain in the series, making sure that I have enough books on reserve at the library to never break the chain of fiction that keeps the days passing.

I revel in the redundant layers of my escapism: making my life revolve around the life of a fictional character, who’s life revolves around escaping into the crimes he investigates to avoid his own fractured fraying failed family life.

Don’t worry (yet): I’m not completely reliant on Rebus. I  managed to make sure there’s a wider chain of support. I get my weekly action fix on Burn Notice, my laugh track on Big Bang Theory and more mystery from Bones (how ever present is the letter ‘b’ in all my preferences). If all else fails, I’ve got some House on cold storage, some Lie to Me on backorder and CSI standing by in case it piques my interest again (unlikely).  Making sure that there are enough intriguing fictional mysteries in life to pass some time, until tomorrow. Just don’t turn off the TV. Or lose my bookmark.

It’s quiet nights, spent staring at the ceiling that are trouble. I avoid those. Nights where the mind goes circles, trying to hone in on some central truth, only the mind’s vision is donut shaped: full sighted at the periphery and curiously blind at the core.

I don’t know what’s in the centre. Its silence is unbearable. I need the constant hum of the television, the security of a story uncovered page by page, to keep away the cold, calm, dead silence. I need to keep escaping.

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