Saturday, August 20, 2016

The Beginning of the End


I really just wanted this to sound a little more dramatic than it really is. I have officially begun my final year of my undergrad. I should be happy, and excited, but I'm just scared. I'm scared about what this next step in my life is going to bring. I'm scared about how hard it's going to be. I have this hope that things will be well and good. That I'll take my GRE and get into the school that I want to and I won't have to take a year off, but I really don't know. The not knowing always kills me. I like to have a plan. I like to always know what is going to happen. Anyway, I've got to get back to my current plan, which is making the dean's list this semester. So, I'll leave you with this piece I wrote a couple semesters ago.


<3 Catherine


Not Enough 
I was on the phone with my mom yesterday and she was telling me how I would get in trouble for reading when I was suppose to be doing other things. She said that I would hide a book under my bed and pretend to be cleaning, I would hide a book in my bible at church like other kids would do with comics or magazines (I told her I bought the bible-looking Ultimate Hitchhiker's Guide so I could read it in church with no one noticing, she laughed and said, "Well, I guess you got away with it,") and I would completely ignore people talking to me.

I love reading, I love everything about getting so absorbed in a book that nothing else matters. I don't need to eat, I don't need to drink, the only thing I have to do in this moment is read. If I don't find out what happens next, I will surely die.

Lately I've had the daunting task of required reading for my literature classes. I read quickly and get through the books when I don't like them, but that's all I'm doing. I'm not spending time with each page, each sentence, each word. I'm only getting through, I'm only getting by.

As a reader, this is devastating to me. The professional texts we are reading for my classes exclaim the importance of pleasure reading between required difficult reads, and I am simply not finding the time for what I *want* to read, for what I *need* to read.

If the time isn't allowed for personal reading, for pleasure reading, the reader starts to lose parts of their person. I’ve begun to feel empty. I no longer look forward to my time spend reading because it hardly engages me. Now it only makes me sad and a little heart broken. Reading is my greatest love and I'm starting to resent it.

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