Ever since my graduation a week and a half ago, I’ve been staying up way too late. Not partying. Not playing videogames. Not even as a mild form of continued celebration that I no longer have to get up for class in the mornings.
No, I’ve been staying up late to read.
I’m reading old-fashioned books filled with madcap hi-jinks, nonfiction books about introversion and vulnerability, contemporary fiction that makes me think, fluff that requires no thinking at all, and old favorites that I’ve already read a few dozen times.
It seems that my brain, overexcited by the realization that I am allowing it to read whatever it pleases, instead of using up all its energy on schoolwork, is getting carried away. Even if a book isn’t really that exciting, I can’t put it down until the words are swimming before my eyes.
I don’t really mind this. During the school year, I felt as though the “reader” part of my identity was only active when I sped through novels assigned in class. I missed being the sort of person who had a book in her purse, and another one waiting at home, and a third one for reading at bedtime.
I won’t be able to read a book a day forever. But for now I am a happy little bookworm.