I have a problem. With books. Good books. Whenever I read a good book it takes me forever and a day to get through the first chapter. Because I read and re-read the introduction and the first sentence. It’s exciting for me to discover that I’m reading a good book, and I mean, absurdly exciting. Some of my favorite books of this sort are The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde, What They Know About You by Bernard Asbell, The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis, The Lucifer Effect by Philip Zimbardo, Emotions Revealed by Paul Ekman, The Hidden Reality by Brian Greene, Anatomy of an Epidemic by Robert Whitaker, The Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin by Benjamin Franklin, and The Midnight Disease by Alice W. Flaherty.
I really wish I could skip ahead past the next six months. I am a horribly, horribly impatient human being and it feels as though every hour is drenched in uncertainty, expectation and tension. Even if it sits in the back of my mind, just behind the shadows of unconscious thought, it waits until there is a moment of stillness before emerging and inquiring why I’m sitting still. I must keep moving, pacing, thinking, worrying. Because surely pounding one’s fist on a button for an elevator makes it arrive faster.
My thoughts are split in two. One half consists of taking mental notes and reminding myself how fleeting time is, and to cherish the moments I have with the people I care about. And then there’s the other half…and this half isn’t nearly as appreciative of the beauty of the everyday.
Restless, restless, restless. It never ends! I know for a fact that I have it in me to handle the things that I need to handle, that even if I fail at times in the near future, it will not be the end of the world and there will be nothing left to do but try again. And I will try again. But there also remains the idea that simple will is not enough, and suppose I’m lacking in the qualities that actually matter.
Eight minutes ’till midnight, I should try yet again to get some rest.