reading reading reading
by The Dreamer
so i’ve been reading again. reading alot, actually. it’s nice. it actually feels real fucking good. that glow in your heart that just radiates everywhere and leaves you feeling good for the rest of the day. books and words, especially those that are living in you, are truly your best friends. and good music too. books and words and good music.
i woke up with the usual weather hanging over my head; not too many dark clouds but just enough to make everything seem pretty miserable and meaningless. i felt empty and hollow like an empty well waiting to be filled up with the rain from the precipitation above. kind of just rolled around in bed, hugging my dolls, hugging my blankets, letting my head loll off from the pillow so that it hangs at an awkward angle because it makes me feel more comfortable like that. checking my phone, trying to see if my recent stories got any nice comments – and then feeling my heart plunge a little. it got attention sure; just not sure what kind of attention i wanted. not sure what kind of person i really am, lately.
drifted back to sleep, in between spaces of time where i’m thinking of what i should make out of today. should i bask in the emptiness, coat myself in it like a layer of batter and kind of just let myself marinate in its melancholic glory? or i dunno – should i just get my ass out of the home, head to the library and make myself productive?
i chose the former.
it wasn’t too bad.
i had sorta-expired apple pie and joked with my mom; watched her dance across the living room as she learns some new choreography with cheesy music for some pointless community centre performance. i listened to some good music, felt lighter, and ploughed through some math.
then i just felt like reading, so i did. the book i’m currently devouring is aristotle and dante discover the secrets of the world. pretty fucking amazing title, to be honest. magical and mysterious and promising all at once. the contents doesn’t disappoint too. i love it when the plot isn’t really a plot; it’s just like the way the river flows the way the river flows – it kind of happens and it’s the most natural thing to flip the page and let the story unfold and there isn’t really much going on, but there’s so many things going on inside of you, all that emotions piling up as you become more and more invested with the development of the characters, however minimal it may be, and your eyes don’t just skim through the words. the lack of a real plot line makes you really appreciate every single line, every single word deliberately inserted, every single word that’s unspoken, every single synonym that pops into your head, every single word that gives you so much inspiration for something of your own, tucked away to go through later.
i think i read for a good two hours, curled up in my bed. the air was stagnant, the curtains half-drawn so the strong afternoon light kind of is falling everywhere but missing my bed. so it’s bright enough to read but dark enough to soak in my emotions, to allow everything to fall apart in this artificial night setting where thoughts crawl out from their hiding spots to play. it was kind of really hot, so i had a sweaty shirt clinging onto my back, but there was this part of me that didn’t want the wind to blow away whatever lingering feelings i have every single time i turn the page, you know? like dandelion spores that might be hooked onto my skin – i’m afraid they might just fly away, and i want to keep them all to myself. i want to pretend nothing is real, and the only action is my eyes moving left to right and my finger sliding between pages. it’s weird i know. can’t really describe it without sounding weird, dammit.
and i took off my glasses. it’s a thing i do whenever i’m reading from physical copies of fiction. i’m pretty blind without them, so i put the book really close to my face, and i can smell the parchment, old and worn and loved by its previous owner. this was a second-hand book; i got it at five dollars. i just really love the concept of pre-loved books. something about legacies and meaning and shit. and because i can’t really see, everything else around me – my room, the life outside my window, even the broken clock hanging on my wall, just blurs away, reduced to a large smudgey mess. i kind of like it that way. i like not being able to distinguish everything, like everything outside is as messy as the messiness in me. i like having a reason as to not knowing, you know? so kind of like a camera lens, everything else is out of focus except for the words and the magic held in the closest proximity to my face, where i let everything diffuse into me and it’s really…it’s really indescribable, the effect reading has on me. i love it so much. is this how love feels? heart palpitations but also calmness. clammy hands and feet but also blood roaring in your ears. i’m in love i’m in love i’m in love.
i forced myself to stop, pulled myself back to reality so i could get some shit done and then reward myself with the other half of the book. i can already tell i’m going to love this book with all my heart and soul. so before i fixate myself back into doing mundane work, i’m pouring residual feelings into here. it feels good actually, to write without caring about structure or grammar or trying to make my words sound poetic and beautiful. whatever is on here flows out of my fingertips a millisecond after they flow through my head. so yeah, this is my thought process – a pretty shitty post actually. i would apologise, but what’s there to apologise about?
钧 x x
j e a n x x