I know, I said this would be the year of reading. Of posts talking about the books I'm reading. And I read quite a bit in the first couple of months. Then life took over.
It's OK. I cannot focus on reading books amidst what has been happening. I don't even care about the books I so meticulously planned out for this year, to be honest.
It's in times like these that one realizes one's insignificance. There is no doubt, though, that the cost exacted for a newly humble world is not worth the prize.
I cannot sleep. Memories from years past keep reeling before me. Memories from times I did not value and spent predominantly memorizing other more distant times, they come home to me and ask me if I like them now.
There is desperation all around. I know so many have got it worse than me. I don't know how to feel anymore.
