I’m sitting at a Starbucks within a bookstore, self-conscious of a potential lurker behind me, analyzing my writing. His obsessive eyes narrowed in on the red squiggly lines of my misspelled words. I could change it right now, but I don’t. I know what the word means. That’s all that matters.
“Analyze this”, I tell myself. “Why do misspellings bother me so little, but to another. it can cause them great distress. Why do I imagine a phantom person peering behind my shoulder judging my writing and cringing at the way I misspelled ‘phantom’”. I ponder these questions and formulate my own theories that I withhold from this blog for no reason. More questions fill my mind.
Why am I even writing? Why am I here? Am I a pretentious prig by being a wannabe book-worm, who spends his day off in a bookstore with his laptop open and a half read on the side?
I get up, exhausted from thinking, and walk down the aisles of bookshelves feeling like everyone’s looking at me. Is this anxiety or just a product of self-centeredness. Am I too self-aware, or am I completely oblivious?
I stare at the countless books to avoid thinking about these questions. I know I will never read or finish these books. But I want to! I really want to be encaptured to another world of imagination and wonder. To escape critical analysis and allow another person to analyze things for me. I want to be able to quote lines from books out of sheer joy of the writer’s syntax and language. I want these words to pierce my heart and mind.
But those days are found in the past, where imagination ruled. Where scribbles on a paper were like Picassos, and lego structures were the pinnacle of architecture. A time where I can imagine being a Pokemon trainer without the need of a cell phone. Oh, how I miss the days where our thoughts could illuminate such a beautiful world of excitement and wonder.
Today, words feel dull. Dull because my mind and heart have been hardened to stone. For a heart and mind to be pierced, it must not be stone. A stone can be shattered, cracked, scratched, but not pierced. It breaks and crumbles at the jabs of the words, but it can never be pierced to where it reaches the vital vessels and touches something deep inside.
This is why I’m at the bookstore. I’m trying to rekindle the imaginative fire of not only books but of life. Whatever this means is still a mystery to me. There’s a life beyond my computer screen that I haven’t invested much time in. A life where something real and free and beautiful exists more vividly.
This kind of life is too precious to be given up without a fight.