Reading has made me realise one rather sad thing. It hit me that very often, I can't visualise or simply see as vividly as how a scene is written in a book. "It was bright autumn and the hem of my raincoat where I sat brushed a nest of curling leaves, all shapes. The sky through the bare forked branches was very clear and there were good smells in the air: fern and a hint of blackberry." Once, I sprawled on a safari bed reading when I just sat up and tried to imagine myself taking in my surroundings in such literary fashion.
Maybe I'm disillusioned to think that I can take what the books say as a form of truth, not in a direct sense here but in a rather, more literal way. Either that, or I've lost my sense of imagination to actually capture each and every sentiment that flitters through the atmosphere that surrounds me. I believe these elements do tingle the senses, but my senses aren't keen enough to be enraptured by it all in the least bit, and they are quickly lost to oblivion; beautiful moments of time just thrown to the wind. In other words, I could be simply failing to appreciate what's around me.