Shelving Units are Like Rites of Passage
Change is overhead in the humid air as I write this. I can just feel it.
This overcast ominous doom is astoundingly depressing; and its effects are nonetheless absurd. My mother is as gay as Lady Macbeth, my father (during the rare moments when I do see him) is showing a disastrously receding hairline, the strands of which are yet to be white are falling off.
My brother is off to the gym. Out of all of us, he had found himself a saviour in the form of physically busying himself. Do not ask me where my dearest sister has gone; I do not know.
As of late, I realise how much I have detached myself from the world. I feel no urge, no want to know of the news, to flip through the paper; to listen to the radio. And worst of yet; I feel incredibly complacent about this.
This all started with my realising my change of books to purchase; that is when I actually find the want to purchase any. (The horror; not feeling an urge to purchase books?!)
I actually missed three books of two different series which I used to follow diligently. I must admit, of the past year or so, I had turned into a down-right snob, no longer passing through and checking the area of the bookstore I had once frequented, for the more matured and somewhat so-called "more intellectual" shelves of Literature and Fiction, forsaking the rows of Young Adult Fiction.
So when I found a new book in series earlier today which once upon a time I would purchase almost instantaneously; actually had no urge, no fleeting want of it whatsoever : I was stirred.
I sat down and read it; I was lucky enough to be given a very rare wide timeframe to read it, and even as I got through to page 140; having a hundred pages or so more to finish it : I put it back when it was time to go home.
I had not bothered to read the book before it either; and frankly eventhough the new book was quite interesting in certain areas (they mentioned the book you read Lynn! The Sorrows of Young Werther!), I couldn't help but pass it off as... well, shallow.
So I question myself; have I gotten shallow? Have I forsaken the very books which had brought me up into who I am now? Am I actually turning my back on the very pages which had nurtured and comforted me through all these years? Why am I hiding the book I was reading in the bookstore earlier; ashamed of being caught with it?
Well maybe, I reason with myself.. Maybe it is due to my lacking funds and not-lacking new interests, maybe its because I'm sick and tired of my mother cursing me profane about my books, maybe its because that bookban (Yes, my parents banned me from buying books. How silly right? The goverment wants people to read, but nooooo my dear parents are anything but supportive of my growing intellect) she has inflicted on me is finally settling in, or maybe it is due to my examinations coming so near and my subconscious mind fearing such an enjoyment will be a distraction. Or maybe; as cliched to put in a blog entry, and endearingly vain as it sounds; as much as my daily thoughts shalt deny it unapparent: maybe my intellectual pursuits have simply matured.
A little.
No one can ever be too old for Artemis Fowl. Though I'll be sure, PMR or not, I'm getting that book of his that just came out a few weeks ago as soon as some bookstore stocks it.
This overcast ominous doom is astoundingly depressing; and its effects are nonetheless absurd. My mother is as gay as Lady Macbeth, my father (during the rare moments when I do see him) is showing a disastrously receding hairline, the strands of which are yet to be white are falling off.
My brother is off to the gym. Out of all of us, he had found himself a saviour in the form of physically busying himself. Do not ask me where my dearest sister has gone; I do not know.
As of late, I realise how much I have detached myself from the world. I feel no urge, no want to know of the news, to flip through the paper; to listen to the radio. And worst of yet; I feel incredibly complacent about this.
This all started with my realising my change of books to purchase; that is when I actually find the want to purchase any. (The horror; not feeling an urge to purchase books?!)
I actually missed three books of two different series which I used to follow diligently. I must admit, of the past year or so, I had turned into a down-right snob, no longer passing through and checking the area of the bookstore I had once frequented, for the more matured and somewhat so-called "more intellectual" shelves of Literature and Fiction, forsaking the rows of Young Adult Fiction.
So when I found a new book in series earlier today which once upon a time I would purchase almost instantaneously; actually had no urge, no fleeting want of it whatsoever : I was stirred.
I sat down and read it; I was lucky enough to be given a very rare wide timeframe to read it, and even as I got through to page 140; having a hundred pages or so more to finish it : I put it back when it was time to go home.
I had not bothered to read the book before it either; and frankly eventhough the new book was quite interesting in certain areas (they mentioned the book you read Lynn! The Sorrows of Young Werther!), I couldn't help but pass it off as... well, shallow.
So I question myself; have I gotten shallow? Have I forsaken the very books which had brought me up into who I am now? Am I actually turning my back on the very pages which had nurtured and comforted me through all these years? Why am I hiding the book I was reading in the bookstore earlier; ashamed of being caught with it?
Well maybe, I reason with myself.. Maybe it is due to my lacking funds and not-lacking new interests, maybe its because I'm sick and tired of my mother cursing me profane about my books, maybe its because that bookban (Yes, my parents banned me from buying books. How silly right? The goverment wants people to read, but nooooo my dear parents are anything but supportive of my growing intellect) she has inflicted on me is finally settling in, or maybe it is due to my examinations coming so near and my subconscious mind fearing such an enjoyment will be a distraction. Or maybe; as cliched to put in a blog entry, and endearingly vain as it sounds; as much as my daily thoughts shalt deny it unapparent: maybe my intellectual pursuits have simply matured.
A little.
No one can ever be too old for Artemis Fowl. Though I'll be sure, PMR or not, I'm getting that book of his that just came out a few weeks ago as soon as some bookstore stocks it.
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