I started reading.
Last night, I found myself in that space again. My TBR pile had shrunk to three sad, unread paperbacks (a betrayal to my title as Ratu Buku, I know). I had finished the last good one—a dog-eared copy of a 1987 Murakami—two hours prior. I was restless. ratu buku blogspot
Not a coffee stain. It was a rusty, dried circle. A tear drop? A wine spill from a heartbroken reader before me? I started reading
Under my bed, layered in dust and broken dreams of a tidy life, is a cardboard box labeled "Donation." It has sat there for three years. Inside are the books I claimed to hate. The ex-boyfriend’s philosophy tomes. The cookbooks for diets I never started. The novel everyone loved but made me yawn. I had finished the last good one—a dog-eared
There is a particular kind of loneliness that only exists in a rented room at 2 AM. It is not the sad kind. It is the hollow, waiting kind. The kind where the walls breathe and the ceiling fan ticks like a countdown to nothing.
