Trying to read

There is something about losing myself in the abyss of words, thousands at a time, that I absolutely love. I love to read. But here’s the thing. On most days, I can’t read. Even though I love the activity, sometimes I just find myself incapable of flipping through the pages, poring over the words.

Sometimes I go back to something I have read before. The comfort of familiarity is soothing. However, it’s only the light reads. Maybe a love story or maybe one with dollops of magic. (Ah Aha!)

I thought maybe e-books would make my life easier. There are so many of them and I spend so much time on my phone anyway. But they didn’t. I am always too distracted to do justice to this beautiful book I bought, in all its Kindle glory. I guess I am old school that way. Not that I haven’t read e-books before. But it feels like a different lifetime.

One before the pandemic hit me. One before life started to get real. One before I started to feel like an adult.

Now, I try. And I try hard. On most days, I am able to do justice to the concept of trying hard. Even if not to the concept of actually trying hard. There is a difference you see. Between the idea of an act and well, the act.

I guess, like all things tough, and ones I need to get around to be able to survive this thing called life, I will have to put in the effort. To read. For real. And not be this person who spends too much time trying to read.

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