It’s been a while since I last read a book.
But with my upcoming hospitalization next month, I decided I might spend some time reading, so I went to a bookstore.
Most of the books I once owned, I had let go of a few years ago.
So I found myself buying some of the same titles again.
Alongside those, I also picked up a few I had been curious about but never read.
I wouldn’t call myself a reader, so I included a few of what are often considered “classics.”
On the way home, I opened a few pages and tried to read.
But the words didn’t quite settle into my mind.
Perhaps the “muscle” required for reading physical books has weakened.
Still, I could clearly feel that it was gentle on the eyes.
And then I found myself wondering,
why is it that ink on paper can become a story?
I let myself drift into that familiar sense of wonder, and the quiet comfort that comes with it.