Ah, books, my oldest most constant companions...how I've missed you...The great thing about books is that they are so constant. For as long as I can remember being able to read, books have been my friends. Obviously this exposes just how introverted (anti-social?) I am. But books don't make me feel bad or less than or unloved. Books are always available and never ignore me. Books make me feel warm and fuzzy and comforted: their words, their creamy pages, the way they feel in my hands, the familiar characters who are like old friends.
I had kind of forgotten what it feels like to curl up with a good book. Since my dad died, I have not read a single work of fiction. I've tried, but even engaging books have sat waiting to be finished. This has never happened to me before since I have always been an avid reader. I can't explain it, but it seems it may have been part of my grieving. But yesterday, I picked up a novel by one of my favourite authors. I had started it months ago and then it had sat collecting dust. I actually had to start again at the beginning since I couldn't remember what I'd read. But I'm more than halfway and I am loving it. Escaping into the world of my favourite detective was exactly what I needed this week. Now if I can just make myself go to bed on time instead of staying up all night to finish....
