The books don’t fit

I had begun to wish I had never brought dreams up, never created a category for them here, because they really are quite boring; but now I can’t seem to escape from my recurring packing dream. At least last night I was packing up books, not underwear; they were in a big unstable pile that no way was going to fit into my suitcase; plus, there was one book I needed to write this blog, of all things, that was in the other room, and the leader of our group, some strange man, as usual, told us we had ten minutes before we had to leave.

I love books; I love the smell of books; I’m happiest when I’m reading a good book. Several years ago I followed the creativity program of The Artist’s Way. One of the exercises was to give up reading for a week. A week! It was one of the most difficult weeks of my life. It’s an addiction.

My addiction no longer fits, this dream is saying; and time is running out. Hmmm.

This entry was posted in Dreams, consciousness, and weird things like that, My so-called-life. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s