Sitting with a book, Red Clover tea (iced), and a slice of toast covered in mango infused honey.
I've been trying to get back into reading lately, as it was my preferred escape method back in middle school (my father always brags that i was reading at a college level back then. I don't know how to explain to him that even reading longer posts has become tiresome).
I often find myself scrolling through booktok, listening to reccommended book summaries, and internally deciding which ones i would like and which ones i wouldnt.
Sometimes i even find myself in a bookstore. Not often anymore, usually with friends or others who also want to peruse (but not buy) books. I never end up getting those booktok reccommendations, though i do find myself mulling over them and staring. More often than not my lack of a purchase is chalked up to a lack of money for it. That i need money for food later in the week. But sometimes i do have to admit the truth. Whether i buy the book or not, it will very likely not be read by me.
Back when Six of Crows was the most popular reccommendation, i remembered picking it up in my local library a few months beforehand. I never made it through the first chapter. I did find myself wanting to read more, but the usual excuses came up. I dont have the time anymore. Im too busy. Other things need to get done. I ended up buying the book anyways.
Last night was the first time since middle school that i opened a book and did not stop reading because i didnt want to. I happened to know where the old copy of Six of Crows was lying, so i picked it up. Lucky me, i even left a bookmark (this time a few pages into the second chapter) so i didnt have to re-read the beginning for a fifth time.
And now i find myself here, writing out this post. Its long winded, and probably more seriously toned than this blog is used to. But i am proud of myself. It is hard for me to pick up a book and finish it. But i am trying. Thats the most i can say in a long time. I am trying, and it is comforting. Even if i dont end up finishing the book in a timely manner, i know theres a bookmark, and that the story will wait until i manage to pick it up again.
Its been months, maybe even a year since i last read this book. But when i picked up from where i left off, memories of what happened flooded in.
I am proud of myself. This post may be long winded, using more words than necessary to imply the weight that has been my bookshelf staring at me, untouched. But i am proud of myself.
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