I'm returning to reading. I've taken a leave of absence, knowing I needed this to make the heart grow fonder. I studied English Literature, four years of skim reading for the notable lines, those that jumped from the page in their grasp of lyricism, or an expression of theme. The aim was not to absorb the words but twist and turn them into something that offered connection and understanding. The story of my reading experience was not evenly distributed between 3 parts but, instead, focused heavily on the end. The narrative was not an arc but a tunnel: I sought the light.
I engaged with books in this dry-spell like an ex-addict. Spending hours in bookshops, stroking pages, creating 'To Read' lists...yet mercilessly employing my tee-total approach: I didn't purchase a thing. I returned to comfort: Harry Potter was re-read whilst exploring a new hometown in New Zealand. Life was exciting and new and a world away from my prescriptive, study heavy university days. So I rejected it. I created new habits that exhumed reading books and focused on other past times.
And, yet, I scoured for words like I was starving. Online, offline, scraps of paper (as long as not bound and over 50 pages), inhaled and injested. I moved to Sydney in this time, alone, scared and needing to find a sense of self to write into being. My new street had two large bookshops; I breathed a sigh of relief. I drank coffee and hovered fingers over laptop keys. I tentatively climbed the stairs to the 'Second Hand' section and ran my hands along the dusty shelves. I opened books, intimidated by their volume and the commitment they required. I picked them up, laid them down. They were the medicine on the counter that I was too timid to administer.
Convinced it didn't count, I saved to buy a Kindle. Hunched over the dim light in lonely, busy hostel rooms, I slowly found my rhythm, a quiet noise in my silence; a respite from the bustle of my mind. My social media use dwindled. I wanted to rebuild myself in so many ways and electronic words, removed from images, were the start. I could focus on the words and pages, the skin and backbone, in a way I hadn't done in years. This proximity, removed from recoiling or flinching, began to feel like an act of self-love.
So, today, with my 'To Buy' list accumulating titles over the past weeks, my slowly settling soul gingerly entered Berkeslow Books in Paddington, a Sydney city suburb. I'd been eyeing it for days, scoping it out. Even stepping off the bus was a non-commital decision that saw me wander 'aimlessly' into the warm folds of its tall, bustling shelves like those unintentional footsteps that lead you to the favourite haunt of a potential lover.
Inside: I ambled, I savoured, I purchased. I collected 2 female authors: Virginia Woolf and Zadie Smith. I am busy and full with creating myself, and I need these 2 ladies by my side. And so I've read. I feel the pieces coming together. Moving to a new place has seen me move slowly on this path and this is just one small, yet rich, chapter.