there's something to be said about the melancholy in the air when it rains during the early morning.
i recall in younger years i used to stay up past 3, 4 in the morning, just playing around with random stuff, pasting photos, reading storybooks, whatever, and my entire family'd be sleeping. id crawl to bed with the distant sounds of people starting their days. in some ways my mom has never been strict with me. one of which was that she always allowed me to stay up late to read. i used to sit right outside the bathroom floor and read in the wee hours of the morning, because i was scared to be downstairs by myself.
then i grew older and those early mornings were spent mostly typing ridiculous early morning rants to mrs twit and writing emotional blog entries.
then it got taken over by late night studying.
i miss staying up and just feeling okay in my solitude.
yesterday i couldn't fall asleep till 6am, and had a strange dream in which i had the ability to see ghosts in our world. if i behaved too inconspicuously they'd notice me and i'd get hurt. saving someone was involved and jumping on bouncy mushroom-like things very high up in the air were involved. an evil lady was also in it. with a silent evil man as her partner.
i was very scared but very determined to achieve my goal as well.
i keep dreaming strange things recently and i don't really know what to make of them.
maybe this melancholy's also brought on by my riffling through my book collection today. my new book shelf was fixed together so my books, neatly put away into boxes by Mommy whilst i was away on exchange, were painstakingly wiped and placed into their new home. i think books have the power of transporting one to an entirely different dimension. not simply the story within the pages itself, but for books that you've read before, you get pulled back to the past time/s you've read them. it's nice to reminisce about the past like this. looking at my pokemon comics i thought of how i'd pull Alice to comic connection after school to check if the newest one had been released. at Toni Morrison's The Bluest Eye i'd think of reading in my hall room tearing at that poor little girl hating herself just because of phenotypical characteristics. at my harry potter collection i'd think of being seated next to the bathroom flipping the pages of my hardcover books in the dim light. looking at my Gaiman books i think of all his novels which i'd read because of the brilliant thing known as the library.
someone once told me he doesn't read a novel again, after he's finished it. i don't understand that. really, i don't.
Labels: dreams, early morning type, melancholy, nostalgia, of reading, young days
