I suddenly realized earlier today that I love the book I'm currently reading. I mean, thus far. I’m only about three quarters done with it, and up until now, I thought I was just tolerating it. So much so that I leave it in my drawer at work and pick it up only at lunchtime. But it occurred to me suddenly that even on its simplest level, it's so thoughtful that it's scary.
Some of the books that are actually my favorites never make it to my Favorites list, which I fear may be dominated with general entertainment pieces that I happen to find well-written and/or bearing a vaguely significant message.
But some of the best books I’ve read, the most revealing or with the greatest value/truths involved, I don't know if I've really enjoyed reading. Or, maybe I just haven't noticed that I've enjoyed them. That’s… annoying of me.
NOTICE: that does not mean that all books I love for their entertainment value are meaningless to me, or that I neglect powerful/valuable books when speaking of my Favorites. I’m just saying I neglect some good ones because I’m too lazy to push myself to hear them speaking to me on a level other than WHOA, MAGICAL WORLD??!??!??! Or something.
Actually, I'm not entirely sure what it is I'm trying to get at, so don't hold me to any of this. I can't move my neck because I fell asleep mashed into the corner of the couch and woke with a start and in pain. So yet again I'm writing while sleepy and in this case, more concerned about regaining head/neck mobility.
To early Friday nights-
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