There is Too Much To Read and I Feel Lost

Sometimes it’s like I’m swimming in a pile of unread books; and if I pick up one, I’m missing out on all the others

Photo by Ugur Akdemir on Unsplash

There is one book I bought sometime last year. It is called The Politics and is authored by Aristotle. It was a spur-of-the-moment purchase made alongside Nationalism by Rabindranath Tagore. While I completed the latter, I kept putting off the former. Now, it has been consigned to my bookshelf for over six months. It acts as the perfect example of my reading conundrum.

I began reading novels at four, and since then have consumed roundabout eight or nine per year. It should be way higher, but after my clinical depression diagnosis at fourteen, I couldn’t concentrate on reading for years. Goodreads reveals I have read thirty-two since January 2020 alone. I’m on the rebound.

All in all, I must have read at least two hundred books. My book cabinet alone has roughly one hundred, not to mention the other fifty I had to put away since the shelves were overflowing. But here’s the thing — even after going through so many titles, I feel like I’ve barely scratched the surface.

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