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.
There was something about Khmer Rouge and Pol Pot’s capture. 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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