These books I bought, do they not read themselves?
Or must I do it for them?
Ouch! I have fallen off the reading wagon.
Head first down the tunnel of scrolling for days without aim or ambition. Are you out there Alice? I don’t like this rabbit hole too much at all.
The daily dive into novel and non-fiction now replaced by emus and impersonations and Formula 1 clips and endless, endless recommendations of books I’ll buy but never read.
Tsundoku. “Tsun” from “Tsumu” — to pile up. “Doku” — to read or reading.
The books pile up around me as the love and joy of blurbs and biblio lingers, luring me into bookshops that invite investment of time and money. I invest in the latter. Time and time again.
Tsundoku. The bookshelves are creaking. My side sticky with a thin film of dust, his: dog-eared, adored.
Tsundoku. The Japanese word for the piles of un-thumbed books beside my bed.
I’m frozen. In this weird state of — if I’m reading, it really should be for college, but I don’t want to study, so therefore I’ll do neither.
I’m paralysed. By the plethora of classics I haven’t read (but probably pretended to).
I’m distracted. By too much of everything in one place right now.
Tsundoku. Alright. Fine. I’m going.
