However far away...

Reading, reading, back to doing a lot of reading nowadays; alternating between Pamuk & Rhinehart, taking as much time as I wish. Too much time I'm afraid. Sometimes I wished I should have sped up the reading process but during those times, something's always telling me to take my time with a book - take in every word, phrase, and paragraph like wine.

I remember the days when I use to gobble up pages with furor and spit the book up back into the bookshelf, insatiable. There's the read section, and the yet-to-be's, including a silent mental section for the favourites and never-again's. Mom used to get so angry every time I come home with a new book, incensed by my money management. I wonder why myself at times; why books, why not dresses?

Well, I suspect those days of eager avid gobble-reading have long been muzzled. With barely any time and the fact that I rarely ever buy anymore, I guess this is why I chose to go at my books like a tortoise on a snail now. Not that it's a bad thing. My average daily word consumption remains at a favourable level I shall say...

I just need to write more. And play the piano more.

And perhaps one day muster enough courage to unhinge the case and take a peek at my cello...ol buddy ol pal. Bet the strings have all rusted, and I wonder what I'd do if I find it housing a family of termites.

Shucks.