Nothing quite matches the joy of holding a new book in your hands, the pages fresh and crisp, the smell so undeniably…bookish (except, perhaps, clean sheets).
I bought a new book this morning, making up for the oats I had for breakfast today, the salad I had for lunch yesterday, and the lack of tea.
But books can also hold disappointment. Don’t we walk into a book store, expecting to find the perfect book? The book of our dreams, the book that will answer every question we didn’t know we had, the book that will understand us? We want someone to put our thoughts into words into meaning so we can grasp onto what we’re actually feeling inside, past the shallow stuff. Isn’t that why we listen to sad songs? Because it makes us know we are not the only person to ever feel this way?
I’ve been reading the afternoon away. And God is asking me if I feel any better, or if I have simply used my books as a way to move on without addressing anything at all.
I love reading, and reading in itself isn’t bad. Quite the opposite, in my book-lovers-opinion. But what is the balance of enjoying something for what it is without placing too much…everything…into it? What is a simple joy in life can quickly become something that we perhaps place too much hope into, almost. We hold onto temporary things because we know we enjoy them. But when does this enjoyment become dependent?
I finished my book, put it back on the shelf. Do I think of it again? Will I read it again? Does it hold anything worth holding onto, anything that will be continually healthy for me, so to speak?
Golly, when did I get so deep? It must be the lack of sugar in my diet right now. Or the knowledge that I have to ring Centrelink tomorrow. Or the fact that my resume remains unfinished.
On that note, I do believe my cue to leave makes itself known.