Well a box of red and a pill or three
And I’m calling time and temperature just for some company.
I wish you were here. I wish I was too.
I’ll drink myself to sleeplessness, I always do.
–Old 97’s/Big Brown Eyes
It’s a little trippy, pun intended, to be sick for long enough, and medicated long enough that you don’t feel quite like yourself for more than a few days. For a person who has always considered herself a thinker and who has been a reader since even before I have memory, it’s a challenge for me to get through the days without being able to focus on a book. Or a thought. Or, uh, a blog. My brain will presumably be back at some point. It will, right?
I hope it comes back, because although I do love re-reading my entire collection of Christopher Moore, there comes a point at which my brain requires feeding with something other than humor. Something which requires a little analysis. Maybe a little interpretation. Thought.
I miss thinking.
And the books are stacking up. Virtually stacking up. I need to read “the Book Thief” and “Underworld.”
“the Gardens of Kyoto” and all of the Terry Pratchett Discworlds I got on super sale. “the Taliban Cricket Club.” “the Orchardist.”
Oh my gosh. I hardly have anything to read. I usually have a much larger stack than this.
No wonder my brain is shriveling.
Maybe I should do a little browsing around. See if there’s anything out there that looks interesting…ooh! Like “Under the Volcano….”
I’ll be back.