It is a strange state to be in. Wanting to read but not being able to…
All the books seemed so distant. I couldn’t reach them. There was something like a thick fog between us. Everything was there but could not be observed. I tried Ibsen, and Byatt, Spinoza too, and Mitford, Lawrence Durrell, Patricia Meyer Spacks… There was a moment when I almost made a connection with Olafsson’s The Journey Home. The mood of the first paragraph was so beautifully inviting, (somehow) matching the weather outside – the sky was decidedly gray and I knew nobody would call me out. I was absolutely free to stay in the comfort of my home. Yet something was not right, something I am not able to define.. I was like a child learning to read – recognizing the letters but not making out the meaning of the sentences: I read mechanically without entering the world that words formed… Eventually I had to accept it – my mind was tired and there was no use in forcing it. No matter how hard I wished to get back to my normal state of being I had to stop trying. I had to let my mind recover naturally, on its own, in its own pace.
I have been in this peculiar state for days. For more than a week, in fact.
I missed reading. I missed going to bed with a book. I missed carrying it in my bag. I missed the joy of a well written story. Most of all I missed living the story. I longed for my parallel dimensions… But, I waited.
This morning I went into the American Corner Library just to return the book. Or so I thought. I couldn’t restrain myself from browsing the shelves thinking ‘if I can’t read I can at least look’. And so I saw a watercolor painted cover of Willa Cather’s Death Comes for The Archbishop. And it ended the tormenting hiatus.