I love to read. But I have a love/hate relationship with reading. Or more likely with myself, but who doesn’t really? I’ve always loved to read. In some ways, I love it more than anything. But I made what can be described as a mistake, though nothing in this world will ever make me see it as such. I devoted my life to it.
To clarify, my love of reading inspired me to get an English degree and go into publishing. I don’t think of myself as much of a writer, so it was a way of helping spread my love of books without the ability to write them for myself. And oh how I loved my degree. It was some of the best years of my life and I reemerged into the world an entirely new, more open-minded person. Nothing will change you like an education does. But it was hard. As an English student, I had to read. And read. And read and read and read. So much amazing material, like Djuna Barnes’ Nightwood, but so much of it just wasn’t for pleasure and it rapidly became a chore. Once upon a time, I could wake up, make tea, pick up a book and before I knew it, it was nightfall. But now, my concentration is shot. Unless the book is one of the best things I’ve ever read, I can’t be fully engrossed like I used to. I get restless, fidgety. Though there is still so much I want to read and I will never stop endeavouring to get back to that place of escapism.
Even as I have moved on and discovered my true career passion in cataloguing, I am still devoted to books. Devoted to finding a path back to that place in our relationship, where reading was as easy as breathing.
But until then, I’ll sip my tea and try.