雨水

Rain water.

The sunset yesterday.

 

There hasn’t been much rain here, since it’s usually in the negatives. I woke up the other day to the sound of persistent water dripping, and I thought it was rain… which would be something I’m used to. After opening my blinds, I noticed that it was actually just the melting snow and ice.

I’m halfway through my reading break, and I can’t say I’ve been the most productive. I haven’t been unproductive, either, but then again, I tend to feel unsatisfied regardless of how objectively productive I’ve been. Whether I’ve written, painted, edited, etc, I still feel unproductive. This is probably because I either haven’t finished the project, it’s not “perfect”, I haven’t received criticism or praise, or just because I know I made it and therefore it can’t really amount to much. I wonder how I’ll ever compensate for that last reason, though. Well, anyway, I’ll never run out of work to do.

Recently I’ve been thinking about reading. As a little kid, I was a typical voracious reader who had read pretty much everything in their library that was their genres of choice (I liked historical fiction and sci-fi and spooky things). I read extremely quickly and had a pretty good memory, which is why I was good at writing and story-making in school. As a result of constantly reading, I was always living in a world which was not mine. I would live in borrowed realities, existing mostly in my head and not in real life. But then I entered high school and stopped reading for some reason. I did read manga (and not all useless fluff, although there’s a fair amount of that), and realized I liked movies… so then I watched a lot of movies. Except they were mostly Japanese or Chinese movies. I have no idea why. Anyway, I went to the library last week and got two books, and finished them in two days. Which was nice, because that meant A) I still read fast, and B) I should get more books. It’s a nice way to fast-forward a few hours, since when I read I kind of don’t exist anywhere except for between the pages (if it’s a good book).

The book I read most recently was One Hundred Years of Solitude. A quote from it was present in a Chinese drama I watched last month, which made me curious. The copy in my school library is very old, and very shady (there’s a bunch of notes, marks, and smears that look like dried blood? in it), and also thicker than I thought. I referred to the family tree in the beginning of the book multiple times, up to the very end. It was a very interesting book, and I’m not half as wise as I need to be to comment any further on it. But anyone older than me should read it. It’s wild.

I’ve also thought about adding books in other languages to my (not really existent) reading list, but I realize that that’s a bit ore time-consuming… and brain-energy-consuming, and I should really save some of that for my assignments.

So, nothing too interesting these past few weeks, just some more mild introspection. Hopefully it’ll be less cold next time.

Until then.

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