Emptiness

I have not been turning on my laptop for a few days, I guess it was two or three days. And I came home every night, disciplined myself to shower. Then, I sunk myself into the beanbag, picked up Lone Wolf to read.

Jodi Picoult is the only author that hasn't failed to make me cry in her every single book. Mind you, every single one. I remember reading Songs of Humpback Whale on my way to the States, crying through most of the part that made the guy beside me looking at me curiously most of the time. (I tend to cry even more easily on the plane. Why is that so?) Then, to make the matter worse, I read Sing You Home on my way back to Singapore for the same trip.

Currently, she is the only author I don't miss any single of her new release. Of course, my sister too. We're suckers for her book!

I hate it when I finished her books. I wish I have something that is as good as her books to read on. But it's hard to come by. Sometimes I wish to read her book slowly, so that the feeling of "emptiness" doesn't come so soon. But somehow, I just continue flipping through the pages. And sometimes didn't even realize it was already past midnight.

Today, I decided I should go to Kinokuniya to look for something good. It's just been one morning without a good book, and I've already felt empty.