(no subject)
The subjective passage of time gets swifter the older one gets. Like consumer products in an age of stagnant wages and dismal spending power, each successive year feels like less and less content sold for an ever escalating price. Last year I discovered that immersing myself in a ridiculous amount of books helped; 2013 felt more like what I still think a year "should" feel like, from back in the good ol' days, instead of a rip. I'm sure there's a trite moral about living other lives between the covers of a book, or something more quotidian, like being able to associate certain days with a specific book, instead of losing whole weeks benumbed by suburban inertia.
Last summer Jonny abruptly transitioned into the "let's play together all the time" phase of development, which ate into my reading time. Even worse, from a bibliophiliac perspective, my attention span deteriorated again sometime last November or December. By this time last year I had read some 55 books; so far this year I've only managed 40. The year is speeding by at roughly an equivalent pace. Thanks to the neverending winter, I feel like it should barely be March right now; I can't wrap my senses around the idea that it's already May.
Last summer Jonny abruptly transitioned into the "let's play together all the time" phase of development, which ate into my reading time. Even worse, from a bibliophiliac perspective, my attention span deteriorated again sometime last November or December. By this time last year I had read some 55 books; so far this year I've only managed 40. The year is speeding by at roughly an equivalent pace. Thanks to the neverending winter, I feel like it should barely be March right now; I can't wrap my senses around the idea that it's already May.