Do you read yourself to sleep? Sometimes I do. Thirteen years ago I often did.
1998 was a terrible year for me. So much drama in my hands I was hardly aware of what was going on in the world. I did vaguely remember though cloning in the news. And I managed to take note of my country’s new president, the actor, whose election put images of Ronald Reagan in my head. How I like his facial expression. It’s kind.
There was something about Khmer Rouge and the Cambodian genocide. I remember thinking as long as I get to visit Angkor Wat before anything happens to it I am fine with the world. And I buried the rest of my own problems in books. What perfect timing to read the Brontes. Just more of the depression that I needed. But at least those depressions were not mine and I took comfort in realizing I wasn’t the Queen of Depression at all.
Wuthering Heights. Check. Agnes Grey. Check. Jane Eyre. Double check.
Yesterday I watched the latest film adaptation of Jane Eyre on DVD. A bit of classic romance for a nice break. Reading yourself to sleep could be way better than Valium. It also comes with nostalgic nights spent with story characters. This is the 1998 that I want to keep in memory.
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