I haven’t given myself enough time to recover from recent events in terms of CFS. I’ve been keen to get my books published and have been busying away when I should have been resting. I know I’m being silly but I just can’t seem to stop myself. The excitement drives me forward, only for me to slump and feel wretched. I’ve got myself to the point of not being able to sleep because I’m over tired. Vicious circle!
My family are concerned and keep sending my up the garden with a book to read! I’ve really appreciated it. I decided to re-read a few old favourites. The primary objective of this was so that I wouldn’t get intrigued and feel the need to defy my heavy eyes and keep turning the pages, eager to discover the next events to befall the characters. This has failed: Firstly because I had forgotten significant chunks of the plots and secondly the books seem to have become more special since my last read.
It must be me who has changed, not the books! Perhaps I seem to identify and empathise more with the characters since experiencing more life than the last time we “met”. For me, characters tend to come off the page – I have a vivid imagination, which has always bolstered my enjoyment of reading. Having gone through significantly less dramatic events and their consequential thought processes and feelings, I can appreciate their plights more fully; making their tales really hit home. This is happening even in the most unlikely books which are completely disparate to my life, yet I somehow see (tenuous) comparisons. I can’t quite put my finger on it but whatever it is, emotions are running high and I’m struggling to put the books down! Does this happen to you?
That was until the red admiral butterfly decided to read over my shoulder. She has been perched on the corner of my chair, my shoulder and my head. Her most effective attention grabbing move was when she landed on the bridge of my nose and spread her wings to bask in the last of the evening sunshine. It wasn’t long before she flitted away, leaving me free to reinstate my nose back into my book and get embroiled in the story.
Perhaps a less energetic occupation would be concentrating on finding out who has been leaving these signs in the garden… Any ideas? I don’t think it was the butterfly!