It's been a minute, because you know, life. But amidst all of the crazy triggering shit happening around us--- like the possible election of an Angry Cheese Doodle to arguably the highest and most powerful position in the world, and footage continuing to surface which illustrates violent police practices/murder of African Americans, I decided to veer away from the frustration, and write about something different--books. That's right... books. Sort of... Follow me for a bit.
I live in New York City. The subway trains, though comedic and annoying at times, are the most efficient way to commute around the city. They're kinda like the roller coasters in an amusement park (although I am rarely amused)-- the line is always long, it's crowded, and someone is usually getting sick.
To keep my sanity and pass the almost hour commute to work, I usually pack some form of entertainment. That's sort of the perks of not having to drive in NYC. (It's one of the reasons I don't own a car)--I can focus on more important things like, making sure my eyebrows are on fleek, decide whether or not to draft a well crafted read in the 'Notes' section of my iPhone (act like y'all don't do it) in response to an idiotic text that I received, or, I can enjoy the musings of my favorite characters in the latest book that I'm indulging in.
The last fiction piece that I read was, 'Half of a Yellow Sun' by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, and as always, I was pleased by her extraordinary writing and literary genius. Although the story line was wrapped in cultural and historical references that takes place before my time, I thoroughly enjoyed it. I didn't feel like I was reading a chapter out of a book in a High School Social Studies class.
I carried this book with me everyday to and from work and finished it in under a month. One day, several weeks later, I was cleaning out my big ass bag (everyone who knows me, knows that my bags are HUGE-- mostly because it gives me room for all of my snacks) and I found the book. I thought to myself, "Why is this still here? I finished this weeks ago."
It dawned on me that because I was so used to carrying it, even when I was finished with it, I never took it out. Unbeknownst to me, it was contributing to the stress of me having to carry an already full bag and I had absolutely no idea. It had served it's purpose. Yet, it was still there.
I immediately smirked, because at that moment, I knew that there was definitely a hidden message. (Hey Universe--I see you, Big Fella)
Often times, when something is finished in our lives, we still carry that baggage (literally, figuratively, emotional or otherwise) around, not taking the time to consciously remove (read: heal from) the hurt or pain that we've experienced. Even if there was no so called, "trauma", there is still a necessary element of learning from a situation and then releasing it.
Considering most of my discussions center around relationships and dating, this is of course, what I'm referring to. Those of you who follow me on Facebook and see my stories, know how passionate I can be, and how much of an advocate I am, about going through healing. And for those of you who don't, just know, I think that it is CRUCIAL. For example, some of us, will bounce to the next d**k, boy *Beyonce voice* (or whatever your preference) without taking the time to fully recover from the loss or frustration experienced from the last one.
We're so used to "the book", that we want to stay in it. Perhaps, to keep rereading the chapters, even though we already know how it ends. To try and force that feeling again. Or, we're so used to it's weight, that we don't even notice that it's there-- we're just feeling the effects of it. And sometimes, it almost feels like a burden to remove it.
Whatever the story is, it's finished. You enjoyed it for what it was. Read another one. Enjoy another adventure.
I took the book out, and I felt so much lighter. Have you?