So I had pre-written a blog post. I felt myself so clever I scheduled it to post at 6 am on Dec 1st.
This did not happen. Perhaps it will post at 6pm tonight, if that’s the case I will have two little towers of books.
If my books were a tower they wouldn’t be an imperial stone battlement, they would be a cobbled add on to an English cottage.An add-on that once imagined itself to be Victorian and regal. Ivy would grow up the sides and a spiral staircase would wind up to the top with 13 steps. Each step a book. That makes it sound like each book is elevating me bringing me higher and higher to some lofty universal truth.
I no longer believe answers come from climbing. From reaching and striving.
I would rather the books guide me down and into myself where the real answers lie.
I doubt it, books are by nature in the head and the head by nature is weaving thoughts up in the clouds.
But, if the books manage to transmit heartfelt vibrations with words, Maybe then I will be winding down that staircase, forgetting all puffed up grandiose thoughts masquerading as truth. Maybe then I will touch down on the ground level of what it means to be human.
My Head thinks it’s so fancy. So clever with words. And that’s okay.
Basically all I am saying is I want to read only those books that help me get in touch with my heart. That’s it. That’s all.