Now, the interesting question would have to be how Mr Sloth came to live with me. Any wild guesses? I know what you're thinking - how did a sloth enter my apartment? A valid but unfortunately wrong question. The real question being - how come there's room for Mr Sloth on those book shelves?
To (finally) get to the point, the reason why there's available shelf-space in my humble abode is the frightening fact that I haven't bought any books in not just weeks, but months. And it's not as though I'd be on a book-buying-ban or flat broke to explain this. One day I woke up, and realized I hadn't added any new books to my TBR piles in a very long time. Not to say that the shrinking of said piles wasn't a dead giveaway that somethings awry. Of course I've read quite a number of books this year, but I felt next to no motivation to do the Sisyphus routine of reading one and adding two. I never managed to make a diet work for me. Then this involuntary book-shelf diet came along and apparently works like a charm.
To make matters worse, and it probably goes without saying that the unplanned waiver of book acquisition already made things go a bit downhill, bookishly speaking, I found myself in a total and complete reading slump. Now that pretty much equals hitting rock bottom. This unexpected state of affairs (and mind) only set in maybe two or three weeks ago. At first I tried to fight it and slouched halfheartedly through some books, until I bravely called it quits. Funny thing, around the same time I realized I wanted to go back to book blogging. It's almost as if I have lost the capacity to do both reading and writing at the same time. Well, not at the same time, but you know what I mean. Mr Sloth is rubbing off his slothy nature on me, and my only hope is that he'll move out, once he's finished with that ficus tree. Ever the optimist, that'd be me.
Of course, looking at the whole scenario objectively, it's far from the end of the world. Not buying books by the dozen? Big deal, still plenty to read. A little reading fast? That hasn't killed anyone either, at least not that I'd heard of. It's just so weird and unusual for me that it took me by complete surprise. There's not just a sloth sitting on those book-shelves, there's another one looking back at me when I look into the mirror. If you can't get rid of it, you'll have to live with it, right? Besides, there aren't all that many leaves left on that ficus tree anyway.
Have you ever experienced something similar? No motivation to buy new books and/or finding no pleasure in reading? If so, how did you cope, or rather, get back into that bookish saddle? Please share.