When I read a good book I feel sad. Even if the book wasn’t sad. Even if it was beautiful. When it ends, I feel like a bit of me went with it. Like I was part of it for a while. And then it ended.
I’m going to make this summer good. I’m going to read lots of books. Spending the summer reading is a lovely thing to do.
A part of me thinks that I am a very dynamic person. Exciting maybe. ‘Fickle’ is probably the correct term. I am very impulsive. And I don’t know what I want. Ever. Right now? Right now I just want to read and soak up sunshine and learn how to bake. And to have someone to spend the summer with, drinking cider. I don’t mean a boy. I mean a friend. I’m beginning to think that I’m not much of a relationship person anymore. I’m too… independent. Or selfish. Both. I got very used to the idea of being able to do whatever I wanted, without there being any consequences. Other than, like, my own raging embarrassment the morning after. But no guilt. No restrictions. Just hilarious stories to tell amidst a raging hangover. Maybe I miss that.
My friends > everything else in the whole wide world.
I would like to rewind maybe, I don’t know, a few days. I would like to have said something else. Something more than simply, ‘Okay’.