In just about seven hours I finished reading a book as I begin this post. Not only that I’m proud to say I do read at least two to three books a month, fast and faster, because I’m cheating by skipping lengthy description of hot, sweat drenching, and arid summer days, or the agony and helplessness of struggling single mother of five children.
Each time I tell myself I love reading, I thought that love of reading interest should show up from varying subjects from economic, finance, politics, history or even any fiction books, I suddenly realized I’m wasting time on them, though I’m successful at few, in the end they’re good as the effect of sleeping pills. If you see books on my nightstand, that’s how they work for me.
Of late, I confront myself for insisting books on subject that’re uninteresting. Too arrogant to admit that I hate reading philosophical or ethical or history books. That goes on for my acquisition of arts and crafts equipment that has been left untouched, presuming that they’re what I need or want.
I have the symptoms of a hoarder. Hoarding memories of struggling and unhappy childhood. Acquiring things today I never had in my childhood that I thought I might use tomorrow. A kind of tomorrow located in a place and time I imagined yesterday to be today, a today that is here and now in my hand, that I still wished was the kind I dreamed of.
It was place and time I wished to sit down on the couch on a warm sunny day in my cotton slacks and loose white shirt, a book in my hand, looking at the beach, smelling the salty sea breeze.
But now I begin to realize that sitting down on that couch may not work anymore as I feel a slight pain in my waist and hip when I sit too long, that needs a few exercise, my eyes getting dry from staring at a book, that needs a break every twenty minutes.
While our minds don’t age, our bodies degenerate. Our minds gets sharper with age, while our body go down. Before my mother died I was told that she was shoveling dirt, going around doing errands for her sister who was in the hospital. She died a few days after her sister died. Her mind never told her she was weak, even when her body says otherwise.
I own stacks of books laying on top of my cabinets, shelves and drawers. Which actually were left untouched. Instead I go out and buy more in thrift shops or library bargain books, their cheap and good. That now I decided to put a stop. I will focus from now on, on books that rouse my interest.
We all have strange relationship with punctuation – do you overuse them exclamation marks? Do you avoid semicolons like the plague? What type of punctuation could you never live without? Tell us all about your punctuation a marks. In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “By the Dots.”