The Strange Rhythm of Loving Books
One morning this week, I woke up and looked to my left, at a book that lies there on my nightstand. A book I bought—well, it must have been months ago now, on a drizzly Saturday afternoon in my local bookstore. A book I intended to read pretty soon, but never did.
Books and me, it's a strange relationship. At times, when I pick one up and it gets me, it brings me back to my childhood, where the adventures I experienced through paper were almost as exciting as the ones real life offered me. Once I get back into the habit of reading and the feeling I know so well, I bring my books with me everywhere. But for reasons still unknown to me, that habit can fade away just as fast as it came—like a little breeze of wind on a calm summer evening.
It baffles me. Knowing how much you love to do something, and still living through periods of time where that exact thing has vanished. It's like I need those periods of rest—a time away from that which I adore—in order to retain its magical value. To keep being attracted to its power.
Maybe it's just how the world works. But if anyone can teach me how they are able to continuously enjoy something they love without that thing losing its strength, then please let me know.