My to-be-read pile, I have lost count of. It may have even reached to a hundred for all I care. But it’s still there, the urge to keep purchasing; and this year might end with even more books to be added to my I-promise-to read-these-this-year resolution.
These would not even suffice.
The sad bit is – although I purchase with a relentless hunger, my reading habit has unfortunately dwindled. The passion for it is still there, no doubt about it, but I have come to realize that when there is an unspoken restlessness inside you, it would manifest itself in your outer reality.
My heart and soul are restless. The only means that could calm them is leaving with no promises of returning, and to comfort myself, I turn to my books even more. But these don’t seem to give me the comfort I deeply seek. I move from one book to another. Read one chapter, find it lacking, move on to another, find that I need fiction, grab one, but this would not even suffice.
The year is quickly coming to a close. I pray that it would close with more kindness than when it opened.
Life with Literature 