I began reading a book for leisure tonight. The first book I've read in months. And for the first time since Friday March 12th, my apartment was quiet. And so was my mind. No late night blathering booming from the box in my living room. No feverish checking of various electronic devises manufactured and marketed as ways to connect with others. Just myself and a book. My thoughts consumed not with the swirling nature of the usual mess. Just words jumping off of pages, into the many lobes above my shoulders and through the imagination I have been blessed with.
A recent conversation, centering around the electronic book "Kindle" ended in my uttering passionately that this mechanism "takes the romance out of reading."
As I sprawled by body over my couch in an attempt to relax from the nine hour work day that will bleed into the seventy-two hour work weekend, I stood by my recent claim. As I bent the pages over while attempting to find the perfect position to read without physiological effort, I thought, this is it. This delicate balance of all forces, this smell of the pressed tree pulp, this eyes burning and skin itching with exhaustion, yet need to discover what lies on the next page. This is the romance missing when a true and honest piece of art is replaced with an easy scroll through "pages that look like a real book."
My space was quiet. Restful. My mind followed suite quickly. For this small gift, I find thankfulness brimming this evening.
Agreed. Books are where it's at. No Kindle for me, please.
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