Reading More Into Myself. Reading Less Out of Books

Alright, so here’s the thing: I haven’t read this little since I was illiterate. It worries me, if only a bit. If I was reading more lately then I would probably be worried about how little I’m reading but, frankly, I think that the cultural degeneration is taking hold and the result is that I don’t care that much.

For the last say, five weeks I’ve had the focus of a pinball machine. The first distraction was my Classifiedslust, which has since been seasoned with a little of this and a little of that, and now alongside it I’ve developed what could colloquially be termed spring fever. Maybe more like spring immunodeficiency–I am, after all, not a rabbit.

The effect of all this is that when I’d normally be reading, I am instead staring off into space. I’ve always been good at staring off into space; I stared good and I stared long. A chatty girl, I could even keep my mouth shut for the opportunity to empty my thoughts out the back door, as it were. These days, though, my capacity for taking in the void has grown such that I wouldn’t be surprised to find myself billed rent for the sheer increase in volume. It echoes in here.

But really. Really…..when I appear to be staring into space I am actually thinking; I am sucking on a thought. I roll it around my brain’s tongue like so many Lifesaver candies that I will refuse to share.
I tell you, ‘I have not brought enough for everyone in the class; this is my own stash. I made sure to lick them all and if you ingest one now you will catch my brain fever.’
The thoughts, the questions: my own carefully folded bundle of uncertainty; a private mystery like The Annunciation.
Except usually I’m just thinking about dogs.

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