They say that youth is wasted on the young.
I have finally shed that clock of invincibility, where death is a distant notion and the body can handle all that can be thrown at it.
The shedding of that clock is the unintended consequence of my mellowing. Every so often and more so now than ever, the thought of death comes knocking at my mind’s door. Oddly enough, what worries me most is not what I am yet to accomplish (and great things I do have in store for myself) but the number of books I haven’t read.
There I am, lying on my death bed and my biggest regret is that of all those tomes in my library lying unread. Ah, what sorrow! To lie at the fountain of knowledge and watch the waters recede. Poseidon vanquished!
Time, time, time.. To slow it, to reverse it, to hold it still and savour all those moments that I consider memorable; to hold that tome and let the very words leap from the pages in the creation of life as yet unimagined. My refuge, my solace, my escape; the written word.
When it comes to books, I have the mentality of a ten year old. That unbridled excitement to try something new, to unwrap that shiny present, that timid first kiss. Oh yes, I do remember my first kiss, Khadija, just as I do remember my first serious author, Kenyan no less, Meja Mwangi and I’ve never looked back ever since. There have been a few disappointments, women as bad as a story with an unwieldy plot and books as bad as a shallow, self involved damsel. The worst is the kind that after a few pages leaves you as thoroughly disappointed as a bad roll in the hay.
So until that day that death finally has its victory, it shall be wine, food and a good read! No, I did not forget. Aside from the aforementioned three delights, I shall afford myself the delights of those that are deemed fairer than I.
Pages will turn.
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