by I just about gave up reading when had my last flatmate; I just couldn’t do it. I’d read and reread the same paragraph and take nothing in. But now I’m relaxed, my head is free of all that stuff, and reading for pleasure actually works again. I’m currently towards the end of Bruce Springsteen’s autobiography, Born To Run. Dad lent it to me last month. Springsteen sure knows how to tell a story, whether in his songs or on the printed page. Reading about his humble beginnings, his relationship with his father, his black dog experiences, his crazy road trips across the country without a licence, the way he unashamedly dodged the draft for Vietnam (I can hardly blame him) – it’s all been very illuminating. After seeing how it affected his father, he didn’t touch alcohol until he was into his twenties, and perhaps even more remarkably, he avoided recreational drugs altogether. That’s probably helped to keep his brain sharp.
As I said to my cousin on Skype this morning, I feel like I’m only on lap two of a 10,000-metre race; I definitely get the sense now that I’m here for the long haul. I’ve been going nowhere for one decade of my life if I’m being kind to myself; two if I’m not. To go somewhere will take a while too.
