I haven’t been reading lately and it’s gnawing at me. I was someone who used to be glued to a book as a child, even as a teenager. But the past few months, I feel like this part of me has been slipping away. I keep making excuses not to read; telling myself I’m too busy, or I’ve understood the gist of the book and that’s quite enough.
But the truth is, I’m just not able to sit down, clear my mind and dedicate myself to a book. There’s always things I’d rather be doing, priorities to fulfil, tasks to complete. It seems like I never have the time. And that’s so wrong. Because I’ve learnt that you make time for the things that matter. And reading does. Reading matters so much.
One excuse I’ve been making to myself more than the others is: I’m reading so many textbooks anyways, so many research papers and handbooks; so that must make up for this, right? Well, it doesn’t. Reading books is a whole different learning experience. It’s wonderful. It’s engrossing and therapeutic. As much as I enjoy reading textbooks, research papers and handbooks, and as much as they give me a similar feeling. It’s not the same and it never will be.
I feel that I haven’t found the right book to start reading like I used to. Again, an excuse. But all those half-read books from the past few months are proof that I need something special. Excuse. I don’t know where I’m going with this, really. I’m just very disappointed in myself and a quote I read today didn’t help make matters better:
The man who does not read books has no advantage over the one who cannot read them
Mark Twain
I don’t know what I’m going to do about this. Maybe I’ll pick up a book and force myself to finish it, or maybe I’ll start with something lighter. I don’t know, I just wanted to write this down for myself.
Memoirs of a Muse 