Finding and Losing Myself

I'm currently reading The Paris Wife, by Paula McLain, and I want to do little else since I started. As illustration, March Madness is playing on the tv but it is on mute which is not normal for me. Also, I'm going to see the Hunger Games movie tonight and I had a fleeting thought, "I could go to the movie or maybe I should stay home and finish the book" and then I started to wonder why I am blogging instead of reading. Well, part of that is due to the fact that I don't want the book to end. I find myself devouring the words and my heart aches and then rejoices as I read and I want to capture each moment in some sort of safe so I can revisit the emotions and feelings at a later time.

A couple(or million) of lines seemed to jump from the pages:

"It was like being born over each night, the same process repeated, finding myself, losing myself, finding myself again." 

"And just what was happiness anyway? Could you fake it...? Could you force it like a spring bulb in your kitchen, or rub up against it at a party in Chicago or catch it like a cold?"

I have delayed long enough and will now return to therapy aka reading.