There’s never enough time to read, but maybe that’s the point. Reading expands who you are. When you open a book, you’re prioritizing yourself, a rarity in a world that shoves you toward errands, endless to-do lists, and the illusion of success. You promise yourself you’ll read later after you’ve checked off X, Y, or Z, but “later” never comes.
Reading is a quiet form of self-care that gets passed over too easily. You’ve been trained by your parents, your boss, and your culture that you come last – if at all. While your life falls apart trying to take care of everyone else, your books sit on the shelf, patiently waiting for you to pause and turn inward.
When you finally reach for one, you feel a shift in your mind. There’s a disturbance in the force. You’re not supposed to read! You don’t have time for this, you selfish bastard! You’re not supposed to think about important things or spend time doing what you love! No, you’re supposed to put your head down and do what you’re told! Put that book away and get back to work! (Excuse all the exclamation marks, but I felt it was necessary to convey the emotional weight of the tyrannical inner critic.)
But you don’t listen. You’re tired of following that horrid voice in your mind. So, you open the cover and you begin to remember that you matter. The pages feel good against your skin. The words look up at you like old friends saying “hello.” The smell of the book fills your head, a sensation that is warm and inviting.
And so you read, and you feel at peace again. The to-do lists no longer seem so life-threatening.
Until tomorrow, read slowly – take notes – apply the ideas.
-Eddy
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