I've been listening to books-on-tape (books-on-CD, actually, but it seems wrong to call them that) in the car on my way to work, and have been enjoying being caught up in something else rather than the usual Am I late? Am I going to be late? How fast am I going? Shouldn't I have been at that intersection three minutes ago? etc.... The story takes me out of all the clutter going 'round my head, in other words.
Today, though, I tried to listen to The Shawl and realized that I can't read stories about concentration camps. I just....can't.
It was a mistake, grabbing that audio CD in the library - I was ready to go and my hand gripped the wrong one, and when I got home and discovered it I just thought I'd give it a try - and now I'm perched at my desk at work, trying to look busy but seeing the faces of my great-grandparents and remembering how soft Grandma Gebhardt's hands were.
Some things are just unsuitable for consumption, no matter how many generations gone they may be.