I love nothing more than to curl up in bed under my duvet, air-conditioner turned on at 22 degrees celsius, and a riveting read spread open between my hands. The last time I did that was… I don’t remember. Ever since I started work more than a year ago, I black out the moment my face touches my pillow (I sleep with my face pressed deep into the pillow).
A fine layer of dust has settled on the small hill of books I have stacked beside my bed. Oh, make that dust AND cat fur. The little rascal uses my stack of beloved books as steps to his favourite sleeping corner behind my bed. There’s this tiny little crook between my bed and my nightstand, and with such a small room, I make use of every teeny space I have to deposit stuff.
Sometimes, on a lazy Sunday afternoon, instead of waking up and washing up, I’d reach across my bed and pick up the novel I had put down most unwillingly the night before, and spend the rest of the day wormed in my cozy bed. Otherwise, it would be that I had stayed up the entire night finishing up the novel, and finishing it around late morning, would creep out of my room all dark-eye-ringed and looking all disheveled.
I miss my affair with books.
I smuggled my long-lost Murakami and an Elliot Perlman home from D‘s own little mountain beside his bed today. As I end this post, my eyes are stealing looks at the two newbies that joined the dusty stack. I bet my eyeballs are doing an equivalent of rubbing hands in glee.