I started reading again. I picked up one book, began reading, and found another on my dad’s friend’s bookshelf. He said it was his wife’s but surely she wouldn’t mind if I took it…and to come back and grab a few more when I had time. I haven’t balanced multiple books at once in awhile. I’m not sure I’ll be able to handle it.
A few years before I found myself struggling to get out of a mental hole, I read any book I could get my hands on. My mom and i bickered about whether or not I should just go to the library. I was costing her money going to the bookstore every two weeks. I read anything from Shakespeare to Stephanie Meyer. I read them as though their lives were mine. I was no longer a confused girl without a path. I was the heroine (or hero) in a mild comedy about first boyfriends, lost friends, and high school. The characters and I were both finding ourselves. Well at least I thought I was. You know when you’re so unsure of yourself you simply mold to whatever is constantly in your face.
With reading again, I realized I no longer have a energy to write as much as I did a few weeks ago. It doesn’t mean I no longer enjoy writing. It’s simply a hobby and all hobbies need a break every once in awhile. So I’m going to read my two books and get so captivated I have mini panic attacks on the train as I try to convince myself that turning the page is what’s best for me. Once I finish them I’m sure my writing will take flight again.
Sometimes I lack balance.
Sometimes I just need a break.
I’m only human.