Physical. Mental. Metaphysical.
The things in the road made from friction and sub-par materials.
The mines in our heads where lie some gold and plenty ghosts.
The assholes that riddle the fabric of reality, a shame you can’t launder character.
I’m curious, are many of you readers? By readers I mean do you read to live? Is it essential as the air you breathe?
If yes, to read to live isn’t the answer to my question though. Is it an escape from reality? A quest for knowledge and empathy?
These dead leaves and digitalized words open portals to other worlds that allow us to experience life as we’ve never known it. They keep ignorance at bay and encourage us to open our eyes to notice the world around us, to make you wonder “Who around me is going through pain and suffering and are they’re hiding it?”
If anything, they are our stout companions in our hour of loneliness and trouble. My reasons for reading are included above but I’ll list them properly:
to understand the choices people make and how they live with them
to learn as much as I can about foreign vistas without all the travel
I have serious shit to do, like work stuff with real consequences and do you know what I’m doing?
Guess. Take a wild one.
I think perhaps some of you know. When the deadline approaches like when Dean Winchester grabs pie … I procrastinate aggressively. I’ve gone and made myself yet another side blog, and I’m not talking about the writing one I made last month.
This one is purely for serious thought not related to books. But HC&B has been my base for six years now and spreading out content (of any nature) away from this blog tears at my mind little by little, yet I go and do it all over again.
It’s not as if I have the f*cking time. There’s no problem with compartmentalizing overall, I guess. It’s me running a marathon with a fire on my head. I do not have good impulse control when it matters the most.
Therefore, it’s time for drastic measures. I’m enlisting one of my sisters to help me put all my books in storage, leaving my desk bereft and glaring. I’ve tried this in the past, goodness knows how I tried, but never quite managed to not leave a book. I’m fed up with myself is what I am.
We’ve met the glorious Apollo in the first Percy Jackson books, with his good-natured arrogance (if that’s a thing), and is basically full of himself and selfish but benevolent about it. After the fiasco in Blood of Olympus, Zeus had to find someone to blame and Apollo happened to be the perfect scapegoat, brought him down to earth. Literally, the dude landed in a dumpster in New York.
There he met a ferocious garbage wielding twelve-year-old demigoddess Meg. If you recall towards the end of the last series the Oracle of Delphi was silenced, therefore prophecy was cut off, meaning no quests.
Somehow connected to it all an ancient power that is slipping out of the shadows from which they’d lurked during the Second Titan War and the waking of Gaia. It is up to Apollo and Meg to reclaim the Oracle, of course with the help of our favourite demigods!
The most satisfying part of it all was Apollo’s character progression. I’d known it was unlikely Apollo was that oblivious after four thousand years. He had had his share of pain and regrets that still weighed on him, it was much easier to live beneath this mask of perfection, good cheer and narcism and some willful ignorance.