As I have just discovered, the much coveted book reading weather does not exist. We always wish for the "perfect book reading weather" to be a dark and stormy afternoon to set this iconic mood, but let's face it, you'll end up falling asleep.
You will have fallen asleep mid-sentence, no matter how enthralling the wordplay and twisted metaphors are. You could have been traipsing through the grove of death with Conrad, wandering through the old country graveyard with Grey seeing tombstones of potential, or my weirdly creepy favorite, opening the window with many a flirt and flutter to a certain nameless here, forevermore. And more than likely, you were, at least I was until the heavens let loose their peaceful chaos.
I fell asleep only because I was content, even though my heart was rapidly beating with excitement as the Marlin circled the minute dingy, or completely distraught when Mandy fell ill, alone in the rain after climbing over the wall for what would appear to be the last time. I was perfectly content, and I let my mind take a different form of repose with which my own subconscious story could be employed.
So yes, I admit, as I groggily arise from a rested adventure; I fell asleep.
The perfect book weather does not exist - it's not like the authors wrote only in rain or only in shine, or intended for book XYZ to be read only when the sky turns an ominous orange color in the afternoon after a summer rain shower.
But the perfect book to subconscious self-discovery weather, does.
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