I have a collection of memoirs sitting in a wicker basket at the top of my staircase at home. I have yet to read any of them. I read them one at a time, taking them out of the basket when I am ready, absorbing their contents over many slow nights. I read them and reread them one at a time, and I spend most waking moments thinking about that week's or that month's book. When I have decided that I know the ins and the outs of the story and the person behind it, when I am so sure that I will never forget about it, I pass the book on to a friend that I think would enjoy it. When I am ready to move on, I start with a new book. 587Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡPXHt1dRCjW
Some memoirs are peaceful and informative-I've learned a lot about raising tropical fish and eating healthy foods and bird watching than I ever expected I would. These books leave me smiling, such as if they were blooming inside of me, my heart a flower against a lovely sunny day. These books leave me inspired and confident in my future, they ease me into new worldviews and convince me of the lighter things that I can't believe I overlooked. I have spent long days mulling over anecdotes of human kindness, thinking about just how much one person can change the world. It is these books that feel like springtime. It is because of these books that I am proud of the world that I live in. It is because of these books that I continue to live.
Some memoirs take little pieces of my heart with them when I close their binding. When I pant over gruesome words, the taste of blood in my mouth. Some memoirs seems to dig their nails into my flesh and remind me that there really are things that make life no longer worth living. It is these books that dig up a harrowing anger from deep inside of my bones, that make me mad and violent with self-injury and anxiety. To read of the things that people have done to stay alive. To read of the things that people have done to other people. I cannot believe in a God.
At the end of the day, when I snap the binding closed and turn off my night lights, I find myself fixated on the awesome power of humankind. All the while I have been reading these novels of life and death,-of revolution and agony and discovery and simple human goodness-and I had become so immersed that I lost myself in the tale and let slip the most amazing part. The most amazing part, is that all of it was real.
I am obsessed with humankind.
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