I’m in the awful phase that haunts the lives of many bookworms, I’ve falling out of love with reading.
Ever since I was five or so, I’ve spent an inordinate amount of my time reading. It used to help the tick down the clock when I was in daycare or get my parents out of my hair because who doesn’t enjoy seeing their son snuggled up with a book on a Saturday night? (Ok, maybe that didn’t happen too much but it did once or twice and that’s a miracle in and of itself)
Books were how I connected with my father before he died too, and the books of Michael Crichton that I read after helped me get through it – not the most impressive collected works to brag about but still meant a lot to me (plus Jurassic Park is written by M.C. in case any of you remember my last post).
I still read like I don’t know what’s good for me, or my eyes. But, fuck if I gotta say I don’t love it anymore. Well, I still love reading poetry but that’s because I’m a warm-blooded human being – I’m more referring to short stories, essays, books, trilogies, etc.
Perhaps, that connection that I had with my father kept me going. Kept me plodding ahead and now that I’m another person, an adult, I’ve become disillusioned? With what though?
As an English major, I’ve been reading countless pages of text for the past four years and so maybe I’m just a little burnt out – like I’ve been partying too hard and just need a night off?
I will say a positive side to this love loss is that I have developed a much greater appreciation for music. Whatever it may be – classical, rock or rap – I’ll give it a try now. I never used to.
Now, I can’t really fall asleep without listening to music. I like that about myself. I like that this has made me more aware of myself as a person interacting with countless others. I like that I’ve been able to understand and express my emotions better. What I don’t like is that I don’t read anymore. But, it’s probably just a phase as they say. Just a little blip. Qui sais?