I hadn’t read a novel in years. Since before I married Talon. But yesterday I finished Where The Crawdads Sing, by Delia Owens, and suddenly my whole body is full and empty at the same time. The eerily familiar feeling of something being ripped from my insides, a piece of me taken with the closing of the book, my soul forever entwined with that of the characters. My heart is so full with their beautiful love, the struggles of humanity and nature and life, and the happy-sad ending that is both so unlike anything I’ve ever read and so normal. I hadn’t forgotten what reading was like, but I had let the importance of that feeling slip away. I am so fulfilled by simply knowing the stories someone else wove, experiencing their words in a way that breaks from simply words and becomes something I can be immersed in. I’ve missed reading. Now I want to gobble up every book in my apartment (which is a lot). I can’t get the stories of Kya and Tate and the marsh out of my mind.
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I'm Audrey, a college student and existential rambler.
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February 2021
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