Books that have weight

Some books are heavy. Others have weight in them. I just finished a book of the second kind, a book I’d been meaning to read for a long time, a book I waited to buy a copy of even though my college library had it so that I could mark it freely with my pencil, a book I’d started reading yesterday. Even before I’d turned to the last page, I’d started feeling the weight of it settle into my chest, my head, my heart. Coming back to the real world to drink the evening tea, to have dinner, was disorienting. I was somewhere else, in many places. I miss being a student, I thought to myself as the day turned to evening, to night. I have cocooned myself in my comfort zone, I realised. I don’t try to learn new things. Have I mistaken laziness for rest and relaxation? Which of these am I actually practicing? And also, I have been so lucky. But then, that’s exactly why other voices matter more than mine. I have nothing to say. And if I don’t try doing new things, I never will. I catch myself…