I enjoy reading: I have done since I was tiny. I used to have 6 bookcases in my room, all stacked at least two rows deep and containing, in essence my childhood. When I left home, I couldn’t store all of my books, so I gave them all to my old school library. I kept but a couple. It was probably the fact that I linked reading with my childhood that has meant I’ve hardly picked up a book since.
I also used to write short stories. Again, this stopped when I moved, but recently I’ve been having some ideas. The pen may be picked up anew. I have spent too long in an imaginationless wasteland, without recourse to my well of creativity. Well, this spring is bubbling over. My only problem is finding time.
Pretending I can do science has filled my life recently. That’s going well… I just want to be able to have time to read more, to write more, to do my degree better, to do my jobs. So I shelve the creative stuff. Not only is it a reminder of a lonely childhood, but it’s just not as important.
I don’t want to go and play with the other kids, I just want to do my stuff.