I bet you’d like to be me this morning.
While I started with my first hour of work after finishing my coffee, I was attacked by remains of our call from two days ago when you suggested I give a certain book a read.
I was still on the clock but I rushed to check our sister’s library, which you said has the book.
I held it and skimmed through it while fast-walking back to my desk, with Sia hopping around where my steps had been.
I had less than 30 minutes left on my timer, and I decided that I’ll read the book in between my tasks for the day.
I picked up the book once I was done with my first task for the day, and I rolled my desk chair closer to the electric heater. Our second floor feels like outside today.
Very, very chilly.
I’ve just put down the book and have opened this document to write to you rather than call you.
My brain is shooting bullets and mixing at high speed, so I can only trust my fingers to let out some of the wars on high tides which are going inside of me.
it was a very exhausting read.
I’ve found out why I can’t read lately. I’ve become more of a thinker the past 2 years, I’m sure you agree.
Reading leaves me restless just like you once said you feel when I send you a voice message on a topic you want to talk about just as much.
Each page I read, I trail off midway and it’s only a small paragraph a page. I don’t space out, but rather I have my brain release all kinds of comments, questions, replies and musings midway through reading a passage. I was to read but more I want to write and break apart what I’ve read and written.
I read the whole book. But I can’t say I read it.
I’ve said before that I’m getting worse and worse as a consumer, and I just want to create. I just want to make things.
I don’t want to think of what that says about me right now…
My brain is slowing down on its tracks. I guess it’s almost stopping at its last destination. The platform has the one passage that I stopped while reading and felt strongly about.
It’s a profound book.
One that I’ll return to.
Each passage, I had a conversation with the author about. Some I saved to share with other creative individuals I know.
Every page made me take and contemplate for the sake of a conversation, and the sake of others who might benefit.
I’m even inspired, not by his words, but by the person who made and collected this book.
“I want to do something like this”, I thought.
I told you; I’m very bad at consuming.
It’s always “how can I use this thing to make a new thing?“.
The book, the printing, the art, the passages… every element that made the book; of material or thought.
I appreciated and had conversations with it all;
From the author who gave me, to the others I want to give to.
Then there was me.
What was for me?
It’s the platform I stopped at.
The one page that didn’t have any give and take.
Simply a moment of “oh. I felt that.”