They sit there. Those National Geographics. Silently mocking you with your lack of initiative as you grab for the remote control to watch something you could well do without. Meanwhile, the stack grows and, with it, your sense of guilt. I'm four months behind, you tell yourself as you look at the famous yellow-bordered covers. And you know if you pick it up you'll find out about mice and Mesopotamia. Tree shrews and Tunisia. The Amazon rainforest and life in the mountains of Chile. But still you turn away. One day, you say to yourself. But does that day ever come? Or do you have a shelf life on your magazines? Nothing older than six months? A year? Until your rack fills up? I know they're supposed to be a joy and yet, sometimes, don't you feel weighed down by all those magazines silently mocking you from the floor?
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