It's 1:30 am. Two and a half hours after I said I was going to sleep. I read a book. Actually, two books. Granted, they weren't Shakespeare or anything close, just some well written summer reading my siblings got from the library. But these are the first books I've read, in nearly four years. Since I started chemotherapy in 2012, I haven't had the concentration, mental stamina, or strong enough eyes to finish a book.
I loved books. Many nights were spent reading: non-fiction, biographies, memoirs, novels, and mysteries were just a few of the many things I enjoyed. But cancer took that away from me. I remember trying to read a Sherlock Holmes mystery- one of my favorites to read. My eyes hurt by the end of the page, and my head throbbed with simply trying to remember the characters I once knew. It hurt me almost as much as the chemo. To lose my one true love. To be denied access to that magical land. To not be able to read.
I'm 60% done with college. I've managed to work my way up to be able to concentrate for the 50 minute classes. Still working on anything longer. I've managed to be able to read my textbooks, and lecture notes. But this. Reading for me. Simply for enjoyment. It's unreal. It's incredible. It's fantastic. I feel like I've been let out of captivity. I read a book.
I'd better get to sleep now. Time stands still for no one, and work beckons me in the morning. But I'll be floating with the exuberance of freedom- I can read once more.
A book is a dream that you hold in your hand.
–Neil Gaiman
