The Inner Universe

I used to love to find a quiet place and read for at least an hour or two when I was younger.  It was pure escapism, and in many ways indistinguishable in purpose from abusing drugs.  It differed in that it allowed for the natural flow of thoughts and emotions without force or biochemical violence.  I could plow through books of six, seven, or even eight hundred pages in a relatively short amount of time.  What a trip!

But then life came along and started adding time constraints and responsibilities that ate into my reading time until now, in my forties with a wife, two kids, and a demanding job I just enjoy being in a library or bookstore even though I know that most all of these books will likely be forever out of my reach.

To resume the drug analogy, there is a rush of sorts in the addict's brain by just thinking about drugs, having the paraphernalia at hand, and being in the place where using it happens.  It's not that I won't eventually have more time again, but my attention span has shrunk with age and I am increasingly dependent on coffee to muster the kind of sustained focus I had as a kid.

As a kind of end run I am now trying to use some of my time to write.  Ultimately I would love to unpack my sizable collection of books that I've been collecting since before Middle School from their boxes and surround myself with them, maybe taking over one of the kids' rooms after they've left home to start their own lives.  A writing desk at the window might not be a bad idea either.  It is all a part of exploring the inner universe that most spiritual traditions insists is bigger than the external one.

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