The pile of unread books is still there. By my table, in a cupboard, in the bedroom, in an old suitcase that has lost its lining. Here and at my mother’s house. I dare not touch them now. I have other things to fill in that empty space where stories once lived. And I let those things occupy my life, my days and my hours. And those spaces in between the hours when I could, in theory, turn a page or two.
But I don’t.
Because if I pick up a book, and if it is a good book, then I’m doomed. And even if I say to myself that I can stop, I know I can’t. I’ll want to go on, till that last page has turned and a sigh of relief, mixed with some grief, is sent out into that realm where fables reside.