Whilst volunteering for a charity some years back and was in charge mainly with sorting/ selling BOOKS.
Great memories, as I got the cream of the crop of what i wanted.
I picked up well in excess of a hundred, maybe even two hundred books i could call my own, but this is when i found out that where i live, crime novels and stories by soldiers wives were apparently the hottest cakes out.
Not a single trolley of our papery friends would be without them.
I could rack my brain over what the meaning of this rather slight madness could be, but i won’t strain to mull over it. Instead ill carbon copy one of my colleagues insights: how “people perhaps like to be somewhat consoled by believing they’re not the *worst* in the world.”
Well, they might be close (ha-ha), but at least probably very little had anything to do with actual MURDER.
I just don’t know and im not here to draw conclusions. But in all seriousness i’ve always had a knee-jerk reation *away* from normality. Why in the world, (ever) would a person require so much conformity when there’s already so much of it about? The crowd, the audience, the mob… or, just normal people, the field of Wheat around me.
The Humble Rock Dove 