I’m sitting at my internship, and sneakily surfing the net, reading blogs and pretending to be busy. I have work. Which is where the need to look busy comes in. but I simply do not want to do it. What I want to do is pull out that book (Game of Thrones) from my bag sitting 2 inches away, along with a packet of super spicy chips (also in that very bag) and stick my nose in there for an undetermined amount of time (possibly a long long time on account of wanting to read the next book and the next and the next and so on till I’m done, which will take some time of course).
So for the time being, what I’m doing is wasting my time in a weird private rebellion against everyone who decided quiet reading time, unlike lunch time, was not required after kindergarten. Hey if there is food for the tummy, my poor soul needs its food too. And that food would be the book lying in my bag….sending me taunting winks….tempting me to invite the wrath of the work gods and simply read. I feel like I’m wasting away from the longing. And yes I am aware that I now sound absolutely pathetic, but I feel like a weepy mess of a deprived person.
Writing this at work made me look sufficiently busy for ten whole minutes, however, it whetted my appetite for that BOOK. Two hours, two minutes and 11 seconds to go till I can grab my book and escape into the Seven Kingdoms. (Provided my dad picks me up on time of course.)
Sigh. The trials faced by People Who Like To Read.
There is a time and place for words I am told. A time and place for emotions. A time and place for truths and lies. A time and place for being myself.
And yet, despite how many times I have been admonished, despite everything I have been taught, I find myself unable to conform fully to these rules of living. Fully, I say because my rebellions must be few and far, and mostly secret. Living, I say because they are not the rules for life, just rules to live it.
I find myself wondering how I look, while crying. I find myself wondering what I would eat the next hour, while visiting someone at the hospital. I find myself wondering whether that woman ever realized pink did not suit her, while giving a test. I find myself wondering whether I could go check on my hair, while in the middle of a passionate rant.
My thoughts are inappropriate. Ill-timed. Sometimes I think about boys and risque novels while lying in bed stroking my mother’s hair, and I would wonder whether my thoughts are obvious to her because of that point of contact.
None of these thoughts are particularly original I imagine. But then again, maybe the fact that they stand out in my thoughts makes them original?
I like thinking in a convoluted manner. I like stretching things out and going round and round in circles. It fascinates me. And even more, I like it when people go round those circles with me.
I like making up sentences that only barely, disjointedly, make sense to me, and are probably a mess of tangles to anyone else.
And more than anything else, I like talking to myself. I like arguing endlessly with myself, because really, who better to argue with after all?
I wonder then, whether all this makes me a little insane. And if, there is a time and place for me.