Finding your feet in the face of fragility can feel like a phenomenal task. Setting foot back on that slight path that we each call “me” can be an almighty struggle. As much as we may crave those familiar prints beneath our soles and to once again spread ourselves across the individual canvass on which we have so passionately dispersed and delicately fine-tuned ourselves, sometimes we simply cannot seem to slot back into place.
For me, the issue is books. I love to be surrounded by them. Books take up a considerable amount of space both in my bedroom and in my heart. I have come a long way from where I was some three-and-a-half months ago – but I still cannot focus fully on this love of mine. I have five on my bedside table awaiting a final page turn; yet all of which I am struggling to put more than ten or fifteen pages’ time into per day. My mind cannot focus: it is like it is a clump of potassium, fizzing and whizzing back and forth across a layer of water, never to settle on anything until it is burned out beyond all use.
There are so many books on my book cases that I have yet to read – that I would love to read. I purchased each and every one with the desire to read it. Now, though, they sometimes appear to me as an insurmountable obstacle, a sign of my failure (failure, albeit, merely to read perhaps a hundred books few people have probably heard of). I would characterise it thus:
When the bricks with which you built your dreams become prison walls that stifle schemes
In truth, it is heartbreaking. I used to spend hours upon hours at a time reading. I would relish every page of whatever it was I happened to be reading. Books have been a part of my life for many years and have come to define both my personality and my persona. And it is for this reason that I find my struggle to get back into the incessant habit so upsetting: I feel that a huge part of me is missing.
I want it back.