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
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.
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.