The neat and ordered black lines on the page of the novel I am reading bleed into one another. Fatigue draws my eyelids to shudder and then close, like a banged up 90’s Ford Escort attempting a hill start before silently rolling downhill. I am warm, comfortable and relaxed. The day has been full and my muscles feel that satisfying light ache of excursion. The room is quiet and uncluttered. It is a reasonable hour in the evening - perhaps 10pm. All the ingredients for a good night sleep are here with me. I switch off a bedside lamp and snuggle into my duvet. I pop in the earplugs I have come to trust for their utility and comfort.
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Some books appear in my life precisely when I’m meant to read them. Usually, these books shake me to the core. I discover them, or they discover me, in a moment when I’m avoiding a ‘serious work to-do list’ in a cafe-cum-workspace and I spend an unreasonably long time surveying their dogeared library collection. One book will jump out at me and say ‘hello’. Or, it may be when I’m travelling and a fellow voyager makes a recommendation - or drops a paperback (admittedly, I am one type of thief - a book thief) out of a handbag.
I woke up this morning feeling a sense of loss and nostalgia for myself. On the one hand this self was plainly lost to me - hence the melancholy - and yet, it was simultaneously palpably near. In fact it was the nearness I felt to this former self that gave rise to the particular and odd mourning; It was only through being aware of the the vivid details of this former me that I could fully comprehend the distance I had travelled from it. Perhaps this sounds like the start of a nauseatingly narcissistic ode, but please bear with me for these feelings give rise to some interesting questions about our experience of self in relation to time.