Marking my place

I acquired a lovely set of bookmarks at the start of the year, one for every month of the year, each with a (detachable) calendar of that month.

At first, how convenient, I thought. On my morning commute without any effort at all I was being reminded what day it was. (Yes, this is a good thing because, yes, I need reminding.)

This worked particlarly well in January. The bookmark was dedicated to one book in particular — the book of the month — and it was useful to track the days while I was on vacation.

February's bookmark is still encased in Memories of the Future. Every time I pick this book up, I feel like I'm travelling in time.

March, April, May have been shifting. They've occupied several books, often at the same time. I no longer no what day it is.

I think it's time I detached the calendars, freed myself from time constraints. My place in a book must remain outside time.