Reading books

It’s hard to write when there is this ongoing urge to reread oneself. Finetune words, correct typos. Looking back, not going with the flow. “Alles fliesst”, that’s the secret to writing too. It’s a moment of stillness in time. Just me and the keyboard, and the words coming out. There is so much to tell. But there is even more to read. I have already read so much. The attic is filled with my books, I don’t own a library. Not in this house. I used to have one tailor made but that was in another life. My books are stored away in boxes. Muted and hidden. I miss them, looking at the titles, touching them, smelling the paper. That typical book smell, so comforting and an announcemend of increased knowledge, maybe even wisdom. I haven’t read a book in years. I’m no longer able to. When I broke down and spent three years in bed, I stopped reading. I just slept, or took benzos and tramadol and dozed, chasing the dragon. All day long, every day. I had a great job. The best in the world. Working for the government, a civil servant for life, in charge of a team. I had passed exams and was one of the best. The best actually because the official winner was already in place. Political game. A man obviously. Younger than me and ugly, but a man nonetheless. With a big mouth. I read a lot to prepare for that job. I wanted to appear smart and educated and fit for the position. Which seemed tailormade just for me. I got it and started a career. It soon became a boring routine. I felt locked up in a golden cage. I stopped building websites, copying codes, php and javascript, mysql, playing with CSS files, using Photoshop, taking pictures, blogging, building fanlistings. Facebook didn’t exist. I became a civil servant. I was slowly castrated and hated my job. I loved the social status, the privilege, the salary, the LinkedIn prestige. I still have my LinkedIn profile but it’s of no use now. It just flatters my ego and I play games on it, that’s the only reason I keep it.

I started reading books again after six months spent in bed. I had bought some Henning Mankell, translated into English. I devoured them, he bought me more, all used books from thrift stores. I read everything he’d written besides the children’s books. It woke me up from my lethargy. For a while. I was still sick with depression and the pills just kept piling up. But I had started to read again. I was so sad when Henning Mankell died. I felt just like Kurt Wallander, and like him, I was afraid to lose my mind. That’s why I write everything down. Before that happens. While I still can while I get up at 5am. Thanks to the ducklings, thanks to the lambs. Thanks to life. I’m no longer depressed. I just have my OCD now. Life is more bearable this way. It’s so beautiful it hurts, but it’s also only a slow way to death.

It’s a paradox.