I've realized just recently that it had been ages since I have read a good book. A story book to transport me to times past, present and future. A book to push my bed time later than usual, risking blank stares and blurry thoughts the following morning. Atenolol, paracetamol-wha?
Thus in the midst of all the other work still pending (despite being already a working woman, I do still have assignments to complete, presentations to present and a research paper to write-how mad can we get?), I picked up a book from the shelf and started to read.
The book was The Namesake by Jhumpa Lahiri.
I found myself daydreaming about the characters, thinking about them as I drive to work, as I bathe, as I eat, looking forward to the time when I cosy myself on the bed with the book before retiring for the night.
Suffice to say, I Missed reading. With a capital M.
While on the subject of picking up old habits, this distant memory of distinctly owning a blog stole itself into my consciousness.
Reading what I have written, I marvel at how time passes by so stealthily, nay a noise.
So here I am again, having words manifest themselves from the brain through the nerves to the muscles to the screen. Random words with constant erasing of grammatical boo-boos and spelling errors-I'm convinced my England is going down the longkang.
But of it feels so good.
Would wearing one's heart on one's sleeves be better than being sensitive to others' feelings?