This Morning I Finished a Book

This morning I finished a book.

Dark coffee in hand, nestled in the mocha-colored couch

Seven hundred and seventy-one pages completed.

In my mind

It was the first in a long time.

Don’t get me wrong,

I’ve finished books recently.

Short thriller/romance hybrids

Whose names I can’t remember and whose characters are forgettable.

A book of note, though?

With characters so bold and vivid I imagine I myself in their stead

Remembering or imagining the cities through which they tread.

Not in a long time.

I blame it on my generation

Phone in face, nose in computer instead of book

Contagious.

Somewhere between age 12-

Whole day spent reading Jane Eyre

-And college, only known form of reading: skimming

I misplaced my attention span.

Somewhere between the late night light of text messages from boys I liked

And getting my first smart phone, 21, woefully late

Catching up, learning to take a selfie

I lost my way.

The joy of sitting for hours on end, unconcerned

Now marred by constant worry: email, text, what if I am needed?

On and on.

Childhood carefree, lost.

But

Seven hundred and seventy-one pages later

It is finished.

I have thought, felt and clawed my way through this book, and I am stronger for it.

I am still fighting.

 

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