October 22nd, 2015
The stack of books, the one right beside my bed, just keeps growing and growing. Almost nightly a new title makes its way to the top of the stack, usurping the spot of whatever poor novel or obtuse political science tome had previously topped the pile. The briefest ascent, the shortest rein. Somehow I barely even touch the books themselves, as I am almost inevitably too tired to dive into anything of substance by the time I climb under the sheets. Still, the books remain. I’m not really sure what purpose they serve, some kind of subconscious security blanket. A proxy for ambition? Perhaps they remind me of the inertia of life, that “someday” I will get to those books, and perhaps as I’m falling asleep the reminder that tomorrow exists is what I need the most.