I have been thinking about sadness.
I have been sad recently, thinking about this and that, and people that have gone and will never come back. And I have been crying, weeping desperate, gulping tears over my books. They reflect me, I think, on a whole. I read into things what I feel at that point in time. I bring my backstory, my laden-heavy history, into these texts.
Reading is a passionate, torrid, painful affair and perhaps one of the most potent relationships I engage in on a daily basis. I conjure stories, I do, I create them every time I read, when my story brushes up against theirs and we meet in a strange liminal space, neither book, neither me, but something other
Language is a skin: I rub my language against the other.
It is as if I had words instead of fingers, or fingers at the tip of my words.
My language trembles with desire – Barthes
And I wonder why I do this, why I choose to read, if these books can bend and break and hollow me so. Why do I choose this little death each and every time?
I think then of Tolkien, of Gandalf “I willl not say : do not weep; for not all tears are an evil” and I realise he’s right. Reading – living – creating this moment where you touch – you just touch – the experience, the word-tricks and language-magic of an other – is worth it. It always is. Because what you do, every time you start afresh, you turn the page, you are saying I am here. I am here, and I engage in life, in this world, in this existence. Do not forget me for I am here and I am with you and I give life to this book in the most curious and unique of ways.
“I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart: I am, I am, I am” – Plath