Most of the time I have major difficulty reading. Not because its hard and not because what I'm reading is boring. I always try to pick books that I really want to read, especially books by Margaret Atwood. Mid paragraph my mind takes me to random places.
I wander to this morning, remembering the funny manner of the barista at Starbucks and how I left my headphones at my apartment. Then I realize my eyes have continued reading without me and I have to go back a few sentences.
"I could picture the smooth oval of Laura's face, her neatly pinned chignon, the dress she would have been wearing: a shirtwaist with a small rounded collar, in a sober colour - navy blue or steel grey or hospital-corridor green."..........I have to remember to call my mom back later...I hope she's doing okay...I miss the other cats at our house...Crap I forgot to take Winnie out....Oh yeah, Brennan did...Wait. I'm reading my book right now.
"I could picture the smooth oval of Laura's face, her neatly pinned chignon, the dress she would have been wearing: a shirtwaist with a small rounded collar, in a sober colour - navy blue or steel grey or hospital-corridor green. Penitential colours - less like something she'd chosen to put on than like something she'd been locked up in. Her---"
...the people over there are way too loud...stop listening to them...my hands feel dry....forgot lotion...i can use chap-stick on my cuticles, though...I have a hang nail...don't chew on it...don't chew on it...chew on it....I shouldn't have chewed on it... And they just keep coming.
I unconsciously stop and let the thoughts flood my attention. The hangnail reminds me of my mother humorously stopping me from chewing on my nails at Easter dinner. The nail was half-way off and I had to finish it. We joke about nail biting all of the time so I humorously start again and she stops me once more, when my grandmother asks me, "Why are you chewing on your nails?"
There really is no answer and I'm caught off guard, but it doesn't matter because my father has been talking to my sister and everyone else goes on with the conversation. It's just a habit that started recently, but once I start I can't stop or else the uneven ridges bother me and I can't concentrate on anything else fully, like when my pants are too tight or I feel like I can't get comfortable.
I feel so immature even though it has nothing to do with maturity.
Stop. Alright, focus...
"Her solemn half-smile; the amazed lift of her eyebrows, as if she were admiring the view. The white gloves: a Pontius Pilate gesture. She was washing her hands of me. Of all of us."
I finally absorb the paragraph but I want a better reading experience and I'm disappointed with how long that took. I contemplate starting the chapter over since I'm not that far in, but I don't because I know I'll just wander off again, especially since I've already read that part.
And it's exhausting.
I can't always read. I can't always listen. I can't always write. But the one thing I can always do is sing.