She used to read a book
a week. It was the one
thing she could point to
and say, _this is who
I am._
Now the shelf by her bed
holds the same seven
spines she bought six
months ago.
The Creative Act.
When Things Fall Apart.
Letters to a Young Poet
. All the right books
for someone trying to
feel better — spines
uncracked, pages
untouched, each one a
tiny monument to intention
that never became action.
She scrolls past book
reviews on her phone.
She adds three more to
her cart. She tells
herself she'll start this
weekend, when there's
more time, when her
brain isn't so fogged
over from work and the
news and the low-grade
hum of everything.
Weekend comes. She washes
dishes instead. She
reorganizes the bathroom
cabinet. She finds
seventeen ways to do
anything except the thing
she says she wants to
do.
On a Tuesday night in
midsummer, the power goes
out during a
thunderstorm. No Wi-Fi,
no scrolling, no
streaming. Just the dim
flashlight on her phone
and the sound of rain
against the window. She
picks up
When Things Fall Apart
because it's the
thinnest one. She reads
the first page. Then the
second.
She doesn't finish it.
She reads fourteen pages
before the power comes
back on and she puts it
down to check her
notifications. But
something about those
fourteen pages stays with
her — not as a lesson,
not as a revelation, but
as proof. Proof that the
person who used to read
is still in there,
waiting for the lights to
go out long enough to be
found again.