i long for curiosity
when I was a kid in elementary school, the book bins were like my second home. even through fifth grade, my desk was a nightmare collusion of loose papers and books jammed into every open crevice and surface, sometimes stacked so high that it blocked my view of the teachers. understandably, most of them weren't too happy about me being nose-deep in my eighth book instead of, you know, paying attention to lessons and getting along with people, but who needs that am I right?
well, over a decade later I'm now a creative writing major who misses how it felt to be blindly curious about something. book bins became Wikipedia deep dives became internet rabbit holes and back to books, but it's been a while since I really felt like I discovered something, like I used to. sure, I get assigned books to read, literature and essays and collections of poetry, and I do draw much enjoyment from reading and experiencing and analyzing them, but it all ends up being for a purpose. I read this book to analyze its themes, to write an essay, to draw inspiration for my next creative endeavor, now
I can barely remember how it felt to peruse a book bin.
what was it like to be blindly curious about a book? to know nothing of it or its author before flipping to its first page? to not need to know anything going in; just going for it. when was the last time I felt that?
maybe I should check out my uni's library. that place kinda scares me though, it's like a tomb for dead-eyed undergrads, and I need to figure out where the fiction is kept.