So many books ...

I woke up at stupid o'clock this morning.  Yet again.

Elizabeth Jennings' poems are stuck in my head.  In particular, her brief but succinct "Answers" and "Absence", my all-time favourites (alongside with "Invictus" by W.E. Henley).

I have been so tired that I've not been able to do anything but sleep, or write. Even my arts and crafts have deserted me, though I've surrounded myself with my paraphernalia in order to encourage myself to pick something up.  To no avail.  As soon as I get home, I want to crash on mum's sofa, or my bed, after devouring dinner.  And chocolate.

I've an interesting book line-up for reading. This includes "Lush" (Peter Benchley), "A Little History of the World" (E.H. Gombrich), "The Prince" (Macchiavelli), "Maritime Miscellany" (Julian Stockwin), and around 40 others.

Sometimes I wonder whether our books define us, or who we would like to be. I'd love to absorb all that knowledge and yet have so little time to sit down with it.  My busy life is partly to blame, but so is my currently-scattered brain, with all that is going on at present - work deadlines, impending procedures, decisions to be taken and new adventures.  I sorely miss my ability to sit peacefully with a book and read - my mind is always and already at the next place, even as I right.

There is a sense of self-drivenness, I suppose, which makes me feel guilty each time I am at leisure.  Except if I am asleep.  Well, not really - even asleep, I wake up almost anxious that I should be doing something else.  And so the cycle continues.  Therein lies the inability to focus on a single matter, I suppose, because of this drive to do so many things at once.  Possibly, a brain reset is called for.  Or a holiday, surrounded by my books.

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