Reading Ourselves

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This isn’t my entire bookshelf: my books live in and amongst a lot of shelves these days. But I’ve been thinking more and more about why we read what we read, and why I keep the books around me that I do. I want to write an essay on it, or a book, or a study. I want someone to pay me to do this.

The idea of whether I have a gap of reading is silly: it’s more of an overlap instead of a gap. It’s the habit of picking up too many books at the same time, having them in the sidelines of my mind, clamouring for attention. And so often, I finish a book and wish I could turn around and start it again. This time, with people beside me. With other voices to console me when it gets emotional, when I get too attached. When it inevitably draws to a close and leaves me: a kind of grief that leaves me railing against the voice that lived inside of me for this long and then ended before I was ready. It is a process of grief, ending a book. Letting it go. Can we really let them go?

I wrote ten pages of a letter to a friend today. I realize: I am truly alive when I am writing letters. When I am reading. When I am surrounded by words.

The music lives in me as well, but tonight it’s subduing and crowding my veins. Crowding, because it is crowded here (in a good way, in a busy way, in a way of focus and work and the reaching of goals. A lot to do). Subdued, because my mind is still.

Goodnight, T.

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