The Return (2001)
I had so many ambitious goals for this spring break. Even made a list of them, a long and thorough list. I was going to be productive and creative, exercise every day, write lots, apply for new jobs, get ahead of my schoolwork, and so on. I was planning to immerse myself in productivity so that I might achieve my life goals, whatever those are, as if whatever I’ve got in my head could be called a goal. Of course none of that happened. Nothing got crossed off. Instead I spent all my time beating off and reading books. Read two different books in one week, each mostly within the span of a single day. A feat I haven’t performed in years. So I guess in that sense it was a productive break, as I was feeding my internal furnace with literature. I’m a locomotive that runs on books. My boilers are heated by combusting words. As an excuse or a pardon I tell myself that I work hard enough regularly, fingers figuratively to the bone, for little to no compensation or acknowledgment and that my vacation, however modest, is sacred and shall not be marred by labor. And for whatever stupid reasons my book blog is pretty important to me so I’m glad I got a lot done on that front.