October's come and gone

Hello from a month-long hiatus!

I miss it here, though to tell the truth, I shun this corner out of hopelessness. There really comes a time in your life that you fail to see the point in everything. So you blindly trudge on and bump into things and you end up with a couple of bruises.

The past month has been a philosophical roller coaster ride. I spent weeks of introspection and lost thousands of brain cells in the process. Just when I was clearly losing a battle with myself, someone I barely know looks me in the eye and says, no - exclaims "great pretender!", with a finger pointing at me of course. I have nothing against mind-reading and mind-readers, but that accusation knocked me off, like I was found guilty without due process in court. Psychologists or whatever you call them - not even a real one! - are not supposed to judge you or persecute you. I guess I was more bothered by the fact that I was bothered at all.

The thing is when I asked someone who really knows me if I was guilty, he said yes, and I accepted it without question. I realized that while some people are out to diminish you, there are people who accept you for your being, your flaws, your passion, that you learn not to be so hard on yourself. That I am very much appreciated. I'm glad someone found me before I fade away.

Do you know the feeling when you're reading a book and it becomes your perspective on life? I found solace in Milan Kundera's words:

"What fell to her lot was not the burden but the unbearable lightness of being." 

"The absolute absence of burden causes man to be lighter than air, to soar into heights, take leave of the earth and his earthly being, and become only half real, his movements as free as they are insignificant." - The Unbearable Lightness of Being

Stuck

When writers can't write it's called writer's block. But when a reader just can't turn the page..

I've been putting off reading for weeks. I have excuses: work, sleep, things. There so much going on in my mind that I'm living in it - I'm putting everything real on hold. You know that feeling of not wanting to read on just because you don't have the energy to let it sink in? The book is a world of its own but whenever I open it I absorb it, instead of the other way around. Isn't it supposed to be an escape? You get sucked in, free falling. I don't want to put the blame on the book, it's not fair. I want to read. I need to read. Reading is a part of me, creeping into my fingertips until the words blink up at me. I breathe in words so I can breathe them back to the world.

Where's my lust for reading?

Can't help but wonder whether this has something to do with my tensed neck/shoulder/back muscles - not knowing why I don't read is so bothersome it's taking a toll on my body.

PS. I'm currently "reading" 22 Britannia Road by Amanda Hodgkinson