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Here’s a snippet I found written recently in one of my journals — just a little thought from my head, not initially intended for any public audience. But I figured it was suitable enough, so here it is, totally unedited.

Old book bindings at the Merton College librar...

Old book bindings at the Merton College library. Français : Reliures de livres anciens, à la bibliothèque du Merton College, à Oxford (Angleterre). (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

There’s a strange feeling of restlessness in between the reading of books. It’s the agony of “what’s next?” syndrome, the overwhelming decision of having to choose one book from all of the others. Which should be read now? What are you essentially in the mood for? Sure, you want to read all of the books on that shelf eventually, but which one is to be singled out? Sometimes the pressure is too much for me. And especially when I have nervous energy, nothing can hold my interests for long. I might pick up a book, read a page, and cry, “Not today!” even though I know it is something I like a great deal on any other given day. Some days I’m simply devoid of patience. And when I’m at a total loss of what to read, that’s an excellent time to pick up the pen and write.

–April 1, 2012

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