As a kid, I stayed up late hiding underneath the covers with a flashlight and a book — immersed in all sorts of fantasy worlds. But now, I don’t have the energy for it.
Whenever I open a book, my mind wanders to things I should be doing instead — school projects or unfinished chores.
I’ve lately returned to my local library in an effort to resume reading. But still, the stack of books on my bedside table have remained undisturbed. Every time I reach for my glass of water or phone, I see their uncracked spines taunting me.
But that’s not how I want to feel about something that used to bring me so much joy. I’m trying to remind myself that my books aren’t going anywhere. They’ll be ready for me during rare moments when I have the time. And then, for a few hours, I’ll be transported back to the little girl I used to be — holding a book and lost in her imagination.