Day 129 (One Eve)

Back to basics. To the thing behind the literary stuff. To the joy of when I was a kid. We formulate pretexts for our attachments but at the beginning, of time and of motive, there is a little seed that seems irrelevant every day but one or two a year, when against the odds we sit ourselves down in our bed—a different one than then, wider and sunken at its center—and open a book and read and read and make the world inside the book the world that we inhabit instead of the one our bodies objectively are a part of. When we tap into the flow of a universe besides our own, no matter the artfulness of its construction. When we let words take us and pull us with them, instead of following along behind them as best we can. For pages and pages. ‘Til our butt gets sore and our eyes get tired and our brain gets fatigued. ‘Til we have to come back. To a sense, though, that something has happened. Something different, and we can’t tell if, when compared to normal life, the something is a little more hollow or a little more rich.