This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, events and incidents are the products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

I’m frustrated.

I want to say a lot but I don’t always know how to express myself in the best way.

My thoughts are vague and opaque within my own mind, rarely I’m able take these thoughts and convey them in a way that makes sense. A way that clicks with people and allows them to understand a tiny fraction of the way I feel inside.

I solemnly pledge to spend more time writing my thoughts down on paper before they can float away in the never-ending churn that is the human brain.

I’ve been reading a lot recently. Telepathically communicating through space and time with the authors of the books that I’m reading.

Philosophy? Check. Chronic pain? Check. Media Literacy? Check. Psychology? Check.

I’ve learned a lot about a lot but not as deeply as I would like.

If I don’t go out of my way to make use of the knowledge I’ve gained by devouring books like a vegan with an eating disorder, transforming it in the process and making it my own, I will not have absorbed the material as much as I would have liked to.

Do book clubs still exist?

Do people read books anymore?

Do people read?

Well, you’re reading this aren’t you?

If you exist and I know that I exist (I think) then that makes at least two of us.

Let’s read a book together and chat about it.

Or not.

I can’t force anyone to do anything. I wish I could though (I swear I’m not a sociopath).

If I could, I would shift the world away from an unhealthy obsession with wealth and (human) capital and shift it towards…

I don’t know. Literally anything else.

Anything to release us from our chains. Break us free from the daily grind that binds us all. Peace on earth and all that jazz.

That’d be nice wouldn’t it?

• TheReader420

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