Bookshelves

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I guess reading and writing are the two activities that most take my mind off how miserable I am. Therefore I read and write a lot. But for some reason it doesn’t seem to be working as well as it used to. Which I find rather irritating. What is this slowly collapsing building we call the now? Not so slowly collapsing. A sudden awareness that I was about to make a considerable strategic error. A gradual awareness. Reading and writing are not the opposite of action but neither are they action. The question that continuously burns through my mind: what is going to happen? A space is opened by the lessening effectiveness of reading and writing to balance out my mood. But I cannot think of anything with which to fill this space. Or at least not anything I want to do. What do I want to do? What is going to happen? This is such a specific time in human history, in the history of all plant and animal species, in the history of all reading and writing. When I have nothing I want to read I often experience a great anxiety. Similar, but not quite equal, to the anxiety I feel now that I am finally running out of bookshelves. All the bookshelves are full. A feeling of ending as meaningless as my life.



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