on average, i have managed to put down a book a month so far this year. which is really wonderful, in my point of view. for one thing, i am a particularly slow reader. i read every word. i am not one of those people who can ‘devour’ a book in just one sitting. i have never done that, not because i don’t want to. really. i just can’t. i am not physically and mentally able to do that. and come to think of it, i don’t think i am emotionally able to do that either.
someone told me last weekend that to be able to read means that you actually have time to yourself. and that really got me thinking. did i really have so little of this back home? i think of those dusty selves i have back home, filled with books anticipating my return.
and here i am, by scheveningen. shivering despite the sun shiny day. slowly being buried by the ankle height wind blowing sand against my jeans as i flip page after page after page.