I have spent almost all of my free time this past week--and probably a considerable amount of the time I should have spent doing other things--reading Gone With the Wind. I've spent the last few months with books that were pleasant enough, like conversations with friends of friends only in town for the weekend, but none that colored anything. Like reading marshmallows, no matter how well-regarded, how showered with prizes. Perhaps I have been reading too many things centered around men, and needed a lady main character to clear the air. (The South, she is a lady.)
In between times I forget the feeling of surfacing, of happy emptiness, of regret that it's not possible to read a book for the first time ever again. And now I'm a little lost, a little fumbling, not sure what will next take over my days. Short of words because they are packed so thickly behind my eyes.
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