Soliloqui

…when you’ve got no one to tell them to.
-Brandi Carlile

I’ve lost myself. Not to start off on such a melodramatic note, but that’s how I feel. These past few days, nihilism presides. Nothing interests me, either.

Today I went to the bookstore to cure my insufferable indolence. Imogen Heap and Jack Johnson play overhead. I look at the summaries of the paperbacks because the hardcovers cost too much. A good majority of them have to do with dealing with the death of a relative or friend. Little originality. There are so many great authors in America and the only things we can write about are remorse and bewilderment. But I guess because it’s so easy to relate to these stories. Depression almost becomes a comfort. No wonder people love the fantasy genre. Escapism.

I struggle to find three books to fulfill their “3 for 2″ deal. I can’t help but feel I’m settling for books I might not like just so I can save a few bucks. There’s always the library though, a minute’s drive away…

I judge books by their covers. My philosophy is that the cover was made to attract a certain type of person, one who would find the contents of the book enjoyable. Not an entirely realistic mindset, but it does make things easier.

I spend two hours surrounded by books. I leave with coffee.