I'm trying to be very, very quiet so I don't wake anyone up.
I'm a pretty loud bangy typist usually, so this is hard. I am moving very slowly and trying not to breathe too much.
I'm even thinking quietly.
I love books. I don't know if I've ever mentioned that here before.
I like them more than most people.
When I was small and strange and the other kids made fun of me for not liking poo-jokes or Aqua, and wearing funny opshop clothes, I would hide out in the school library and read Nancy Drew mysteries. For 30 minutes I could forget who I was, and that horrible things were happening and just hang with Nancy and the gang. I never wanted to stop reading. I would walk around with my nose between pages, greedily grasping for just one more paragraph, just one more line.
Now that I'm sort of grown up, I have friends. Somehow wearing funny opshop clothes has become cooler than cool. And generally I find that people are slightly disappointed if I've already heard of the band they're raving about, obscurity is prized.
But I still feel a sort of loneliness if I go too long without curling up with a book. It's almost a physical need, a raw hunger.
I spend days sating my appetite, consuming words ferociously. Gorging myself on syntax, prose and rhyme, other people's lives, longings and loss. Until I am filled to bursting, and can finally close my heavy lidded eyes and breathe in calm.
In other news I am making a giant cookie sandwich birthday cake; I am possibly using semi-colons incorrectly; I am going to apply for not one but THREE library jobs tomorrow (biting the fucking bullet); and I am tired all the way down to my soul.