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The book

I like to read books. I love to read books, but I am not really a constant reader. When I read a book -because I select intentionally that specific book, I do it with a gut feeling, hoping I will get some kind of connection. Superficially you would think that I do it coldly, kinda a military style, but the truth, the truth that nobody knows, is that I trust my gut feeling tremendously.

I don’t always succeed on my selections, I must admit, and some books disappoint me, some bore me, some over surprise me, and their memory last long in my head.

One day, on a time I was reading steadily, I came across a book that seem challenging enough. I was not looking for a challenge whatsoever -and I think that´s what I started with the wrong foot, but either way, I found it so profoundly interesting, that once I got my hands on it, I wasn’t able to let it go. It proved to be quite a challenge, feeling sometimes so connected and sometimes so overpowered by its content.

I still keep this book in my bedroom, a place off-limits for most, my sanctuary, if you will. It stays with me most of all the nights, sometimes consciously, sometimes unconsciously, but always there. The matter with this book, or the matter with me, better said -is that I haven´t been so good to dig my hands deeply on it. It has been always so available for me and but somehow I haven’t been able to deeply connect with it. The matter with this book is that some chapters are written on a foreign language, a language as old as love, and I am not all that good on that language, and then I have gotten so frustrated to not be able to understand, that I have close the book and close myself like a clam, like an idiot waiting for… i don’t know what. I fear now that may be nothing wrong with the book, but with me for not being able to see what it was all about. I may be wrong, though.

At some point, after a double or a triple dose, I sleep.

I wake up with pain in my shoulders. The book has been there all night, making me aware of its presence. I stand up. I rub my shoulders and I look at it. My sheets are far from crispy from all the constant tossing and turning, and I am irritated. I stand there, rubbing my shoulders, frowning, thinking. I am pissed off, mostly at myself. Despite the non-expectations approach, and the full honesty I approached with when I found this book, I realize how careless I have been.

The book stands there, completely a mess, some pages are ripped off in anger, some pages have been carefully marked, some pages contain marks made with a pencil on passages specially beautiful, some pages are crumbled in fear. It is all a mess that I am not able to see which page I read last. Lately I have been going furiously back and forth, full of anxiety, fighting with the parts that dind´t make sense to me, trying unknownly to sabotage the ones that did make sense, and now the book is a complete mess.

So am I.

And again I stand there, rubbing my shoulders, frowning, thinking. Focus, I tell myself, and when I focus I see the book is in a new page, and despite the fact I don´t remember which page I was on last, it seems to me that it has found a way to turn itself a page and start a new one.

What now? I ask myself. I have never kept any books at home; when I finish reading them, I bring them to the library. Those books I started reading but I never got a connection, find their way to the library also. Also, I never read a book twice -I never saw the point on it.

I scratch my head. I am tired, really tired. It is all about choices, and decisions are not always easy. I took the book, weight it on my hands: it has gone nearly double with all the constant turning of pages. I place it gently on the nightstand and I dust it softly with my fingerprints. I have no idea what now, but what I know is that I am not ready to bring it to the library,  not yet, nor to put it on a shelf.

I can start by changing the bed linens and get some crispy sheets. White ones better.

.

I would like to say that no books were harm on this story, but unfortunately I can’t. My most deep and sincere apologies…

13 Comments Post a comment
  1. S. #

    Hello Silvia,

    Please! What is this book that has you waxing lyrical?? I am so intrigued… I want to pick it up.
    I have enjoyed meandering through your words. I look forward to returning and reading more!
    Best,
    oo – S.

    April 19, 2012
    • Hi darling 🙂
      i will tell you a secret: this is not about a book per se… this is about love, and the decisions we take.
      XXOO

      April 20, 2012
  2. Some books are not meant to be finished. Some books I just leave on the shelf. They will keep for another day – or maybe for another’s day.

    April 19, 2012
    • “for another day – or maybe for another’s day… ” wise words, but i am afraid this book is meant to be mine, if it ever was to be own. it has been there all the time, i just didn’t paid enough attention to see it.
      😀

      April 20, 2012
  3. MT #

    Skikkeleg, skikkeleg bra Silvia !
    Denne boka er ikkje lett å lese, gripe fatt i, forstå. Men det er ei bok som rommar mykje, på godt og vondt.

    Godnattklem 🙂

    April 19, 2012
    • Du er helt rett, MT… ikke enkelt, men egentlig ingen “bok” er enkelt. lkke jeg heller… og du vet hva jeg mener 😉

      April 20, 2012
      • MT #

        Yezz 🙂

        Ha ei finfin helg Silvia. Eg har vore ute i det fri, pleia kropp og sjel 🙂
        Marieklem

        April 20, 2012
  4. Sounds like the early years of my marriage. The best relationships always take time to build, even those with a book.
    p.s. you are really talking about a book-book right? not some hard to understand metaphor like if the book represents you bla bla bla?
    p.p.s. hmmm, just call me Freud.

    April 20, 2012
    • he he he… not really about a book, not on the literal sense of the word- but about relationships, fears, and eventually, decisions…

      “a turning page” he said. And then the snowball started rolling…

      April 20, 2012
  5. Some books you know by heart.

    Still, they never will be put on the shelf. You know where the quotes are, the good sentences, the comfort – it’s like a collection of poems, like music – for every mood, for any situation – good and bad – and sometimes you even find new meanings in words you read before – like “a-ha!”

    That is the essence of good litterature, and good litterature demands a great reader.

    You are one of those.

    April 20, 2012
    • l don’t know if l am great reader, but l know that sometimes l need to put on glasses to be able to read (and to see)
      :-*

      April 20, 2012

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