m&ms487

My last day at the Rockford Meijer is two weeks away. I'm happy to get out of there. Everyone that's cool is leaving for college, too, anyway.

I'm finishing up on packing; I've been accumulating boxes. I'm excited, yet nervous. My first four days in my apartment are going to be alone because I have to move in early for work.

I keep on having dreams about it, the apartment, that is. Odd, odd dreams.

I'm going to the library today to donate some books. I'm trying to file my life down to a couple boxes that I can store at my parent's house until I'm thirty. Everything else will just be stuff that I need to live: clothes, make up, bedding, etc.; basically stuff I can fit in my car.

But my precious books. I'm leaving them. Donating most, saving the rest. They were my friends during those summer months when there was no school. Their stories helped me to reason, to analyze, to imagine. I know, I know, it all sounds so corny, but I guess that's only because there is truth in my statement.

But then there was critical analysis. It open up worlds of understanding for me, but it ruined me forever. Rueben is right. I can no longer read a book simply for a good story. I am constantly and incessantly analyzing whatever I can get my hands on: setting, characters, mood, tone, the list goes on...

And it's ruined for me. Simply ruined.

I traded the magic of a story for reason and analysis. I've discovered so many things through it, but that doesn't make it better.

Sometimes the best things in life are better left unexplained.

::cut me open...::