And just when I thought I'd lost it...

   As you may or may not have heard from a previous post or my actual self; the past few months I've been locked and trapped in what I like to refer to as my "quarter-life crisis". You have to give it props, this pesky little problem of mine. It has managed to linger longer than the remorse of any reprehensible action, embed itself into the brain deeper than anything in memory (regardless of its positive or negative connotation), and excavate the very core of passion and self-respect leaving it empty, confusing, and pointless to reconstruct. I haven't the slightest idea regarding what exactly to do about my existential predicament, but I have discovered a crucial aspect that could in fact pull me out of this to a certain degree.
   I haven't been reading.
   I can't pin point exactly why I lost the motivation to read in the first place, but as we all know, no well-read person can ever hope to be a writer, or at least a good writer. I'd been fumbling with the idea that maybe by reading again, I'd start writing again, and eventually the brutality of my mid-mid-life emergency would lighten up. Whether or not my plan is working is nearly impossible to say. The only firm conclusion I can extract from my recently started project is that I have come to realize how much I missed reading. I wish I would have decided to not be lazy, sit down with a book, and at least try to focus for a small amount of time. Oh, how I've missed my imaginary conversations with Wells, Steinbeck, Tolstoy, Poe, Dickinson, and countless other literary geniuses! And just when I thought I'd lost it...I fell in love with literature all over again.
   This could be a turning point, folks.