I’ve begun to notice a theme to my reading, something that has never truly happened before. Before, it was haphazard, Thoreau while out, teen romances before bed, schoolbooks in between. Lately, however, everything I want to read is an epic fantasy. LOTR while out, The Obsidian Trilogy at home, Wheel of Time still unfinished and now a lust for Narnia, all while On The Road sits, a bookmark forgotten at page 61 and Vanity Fair reproaches me from the living room bookshelf, still unopened since bringing it home from the secondhand bookstore in PA over the summer. Rarely, if ever, do the genres of all the books I’m reading line up—it sort of defeats what I’m going for in my reading, which is variety and depth. But I can’t help it right now—something about my life makes me long for the unknown, the undiscovered, the elemental struggle between good and evil in which it doesn’t matter if you agree or not, you’re all on the same side essentially. There is no miasma of dread or anxiety, nobody is questioning their place in the world, or if they are, it’s just a plot point to add interest before they end up saving the world. Things might objectively suck more than they do in the real world, but goddamnit if they aren’t simpler. I want that simplicity. I long for it with the intensity of a crazy cat lady for a husband, and it scares me. I can’t have that simplicity, because there are no magic rings that threaten to take over the world, and no matter how well I plan, Demons are not going to try to destroy all living beings. Sometimes, I wish they would, because those problems are so much easier to understand than the political and economic mess that we call the world, flavored with the social and financial pressures of everyday life. But no matter how thoroughly I try to throw myself into their worlds, my rent is still due and my job still expects me to show up, and nobody ever asks me to save the world. I hope this is just a phase, because I don’t know if I can deal with this despair for the rest of my life.