I'm staring at the books that line the shelf above my computer.
It's packed and house many that I have not read yet. I keep staring at them wondering about the times I will pick up one and read it cover to cover. I look at them with longing, with want and yet I do not reach out for them.
Is it because I'm looking for that perfect moment when I know I can read in peace and not be disturbed? Could it be that I'm just procrastinating?
Why would I procrastinate about a book, though? Why would I NOT want to read??!
I grew up with books; it gave my adolescence meaning, reason even.
What exactly am I waiting for?
I have no answer that satisfies.
I used to be able to read one book from cover to cover - now I read books in pieces and halves and slivers. Leaving odd bookmarks in over 3 titles. One in my work bag, another in my jhola, and one more around the house. Like string around my finger, to remind me that I must read, I must re-connect with the page, with the words again.
There's so many of them, I wish you could see! So many of them to dive into, so many of them to gain inspiration from.
The book in my work bag inspires me everyday; because each story reveals the extraordinary in things we deem mundane. It finds and tells it's essential story and I realise that my life and times could very well be the same.
What a decision!