I finally finished reading American Psycho last night and felt somewhat sad when it ended. What’s that? Yes, I felt sad for a satiric-psychotic-serial-killer who desperately needed help and some sort of friendship and loving that he couldn’t feel because he was so numb. So numb from pain and alienation if that were even possible. Mind-blowing. Because I can’t find anything more beautiful than being able to feel, to really see the world.
And now, I am almost finished with reading We Were Liars by E. Lockhart. Could my perception of the world be changing anymore than it is? All I can say is that I did not see the twist coming…damn. But i suppose that’s the point…beautiful moments are just moments…they stay in that time frame. It was beautiful and it was in the past. Memories can be haunting.
I used to read a lot as a kid. Went to the library every week with my mother and would take out four or five books at a time to read. Then, I stopped around age 16/17, because I “got busy”. Somehow, I always knew that was an excuse…as if! Now, 6 months in, I’m getting back into the wonderful world of fiction. I manage to see it as the middle ground between going out/socializing and being lazy. Occupying the mind is a wonderful fulfillment.
Yesterday, I read a quote somewhere.
People who have never traveled have only read one book.
So, what does that say about the people who do read magnificent stories?
The funny thing is, since completing my graduate collection and thus graduating, the things that inspire me now are poetic, dark and mysterious, are black and white. It looks like I’ve transferred to the dark side (for the time being anyway), with hints of colour to ignite the beautiful, the textural. the poetic.
Maybe satiric, surreal and imaginative fiction are having an effect on me? Or maybe this is called…”growing up”?
I don’t know anymore. But I like it.