Saturday, November 05, 2011

Top Shelf

I was looking at the top shelf of my books today. The lower three "stories" are filled, though not exactly to the seams yet but filled from edge to edge, and not entirely with fiction and non-fiction I bought over the years. The space is co-occupied by my siblings' accounting books, folders and other stuff with words in it. Considering that I've only had the time to read excessively after college, and yes, considering that I am only financially capable of buying books after college, the amount is considerable enough. And yes, considering there are a handful below the top shelf's rungs that I have yet to lay my eyes on. Recently, I have successfully shied away from booksales because they are so irresistible. And also recently, the unread books in the top shelf have been piling up. I promise to read 4 more from the unread heap before the year ends and it sure is good luck to me. I was looking at the top shelf, the blend of colorful spines, pink from Mitchell's Cloud Atlas, red from Ellis' The Informers, gray from McEwan's Amsterdam, and wonder how lovely it is to spend your time reading away the days, weeks and years of your life. Escaping to the worlds both fantastical and lifelike. But while I find their stories most of the time interesting and worthy than real life, I guess I'm stuck with real life.

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Choose life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family, Choose a f—king big television. Choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players, and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol and dental insurance. Choose fixed-interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose a three piece suit on hire purchased in a range of f—king fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who the f—k you are on a Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing f—king junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pishing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, f—ked-up brats you have spawned to replace yourself. Choose a future. Choose life . . . But why would I want to do a thing like that? I chose not to choose life. I chose somethin’ else. And the reasons? There are no reasons. Who needs reasons when you’ve got heroin?

Renton, Trainspotting