Read On

I have this thing I do. I call it reading. Some of my audience (whoever it may be) may be thinking, "Oh, I do that too." But I have to differ with you a little bit there. I read. And my reading is a little bit different than maybe some of you read. When I read, I read. It's not like I pick up a book and say, "Oh, I'll read until the little hand gets to the six," while I look up after every page or so to see if the little hand is there yet. I read with abandon. Because when I read, I can forget. Who cares about my miserably sad life right now, when Rochester and his little bird are falling in love despite his blindness? Who cares if my tears are running down my face when Florentino and Fermina Daza finally find each other after a terribly long and boring life. (and book). Adah and Caleb are meant to be. And Rachel can be rich in South Africa. And Lily gets to find all eight of her mothers. And Carl Ray finds out who his father is, and Beth Ann shuts up and Anna can die in a freak car accident and ruin an otherwise lovely novel. And it's okay. Because when I read, I am not alive. At least not my problems. And that's the way I prefer it. So go ahead and read - read as you always do, as you always have: one page at a time, while that little stick tick-tick-ticks, and you dog ear, or heaven forbid, sprawl your book down to pick it up later. I cannot do that. Because when I read, I read.