Last Night, I got my passion back

Hey there,

I'm convinced. Lockdown truly is a roller-coaster. Sometimes I feel ecstatic, super thankful for all the free time I am getting. The fact that I am finally being able to spend my leisure effectively, inspires and exhilarates me beyond measure. Throw in the added bonus of not having to attend trashy maths classes and you've got a win-win. But somedays, as my head starts to wander again and I begin to contemplate the unclear future...I am back to square one. Immediately. Sudden tiredness takes over me, and I lie motionless - devoid of all life and inspiration.

                                                     

It's really funny how the act of doing nothing tires me the most!

But yesterday was a happy day. Not throughout, but towards the end. It wasn't as if all the troubles and worries finally decided to leave me alone. No-no-no. But last night, I finally got back my love for reading.

Over the last few days, I had been spending my days glued to the computer screen mostly. Watching videos or playing games, but somehow I wasn't feeling it. The hollowness inside me kept growing bigger and bigger. I needed to do something to feel more inspired. I was getting awfully tired of the monotonous and uneventful life I was leading.

My eyes darted across the desk and I glanced at the fat book staring back at me. A collection of the best of Wodehouse's creations. It had provided me with great amusement and mirth in happier times. Now, as I looked at it; I couldn't remember the last time I had flicked through its pages.

But nevertheless, being a sucker for some elusive definition of perfectionism; I decided to look through it. I started reading. Two minutes later I was done with the story I had left midway; almost a month back?? And that is when I made the important decision. I left the book. Returned it back to its demarcated spot on the bookshelf.

                                 

I have missed you. The sheer pleasure of reading...

                               

Why was it such an important decision for me; you may wonder. The thing is, I find it extremely difficult to start something just to ultimately leave it incomplete. Especially a book. And a storybook at that. My elusive definition of perfectionism, remember? But I'd be lying if I said that I had never done this before. I have; although the circumstances had been different then. I have left books (only a few chapters in) that I absolutely hated right from the very beginning. But not without feeling guilt.

This, on the contrary, was a totally different situation. I do love reading Wodehouse. But somewhere, something was wrong. I needed something that spoke to me: something that made me feel better in these troubled times. I started rolling my fingers on the stack of gems sitting on my bookshelf. It came to a halt. Paris Letters. Something lit up inside me. I pulled it out. I already knew that I had made the correct choice.

                                                 

                                                      

A little change can make you so much happier!

The few hours I spent reading it before finally heading to bed very late at night, was total bliss. It was like revisiting a very fond and cherished memory. I realised something very important: all the books on my shelf convey very different emotions. And the one I am holding right now...defines me. It is me. Rediscovered. Special emotions and memories wrapped all around it. And as I read it, I began to feel again! It was like talking to a long lost childhood friend. Suddenly, the monotony disappeared. I smiled, from the heart. Finally, I was feeling happy...after the longest hiatus.

But what is so special about this book? What's so magical about it? How can the story of a total stranger mean so much to me? That, my friend, is a story for another day...