These days, I cannot read much before my brain gets tired processing the words and then the reading becomes a jumble of letters. I can push myself to read on through “the wall,” but then what’s the point? I don’t remember what I read. So I have to be very respectful of my limits these days.
But I still have lots of hope and expectations for my future reading–and I’m emboldened by the fact that I can browse a bookstore without short circuiting (whereas grocery stores and Best Buy cause my brain to melt). At least, that’s what I discovered the other day when I walked into Eastwind Books in Berkeley, on an impromtu outing after feeling stifled with boredom. I burst into the store and walked up and down the aisles, waiting for the familiar but alarming sense of chaos in my brain–but it never came. Of course, I didn’t actually open up the books, but I began choosing them by title–just impulsively purchasing what I thought I might be interested in.
I brought them home and they sit on my kitchen table, waiting for me to read them when I am well.