Reading

 I'm not reading.

This is really strange.  I *always* read.  I love books.  I love libraries.  One of the most painful parts of the move was having to get rid of about $80,000 worth of books.  (They went to thrift stores, a second hand bookstore, and a library.)  When I was doing reviews, Gloria was pretty firm that I couldn't keep *all* of them.  When I was teaching, Gloria was always pushing for more room in the suitcase for more shirts: I was always pushing for more room for more books to review.  I read for pleasure.  I read to learn things for work.  I read to learn things because "life long learning."  I read on the bus.  If I'm ever faced with the possibility that I might have to wait, somewhere, for something, I take a book to read while waiting.

I'm reading some.  I've started a big, thick book, but I'm not even a quarter of the way into it yet.  I read the paper, but not like Gloria read it.  (That was her news job.  Mine was checking the news from CBC, BBC, NPR, and other international sources, via Twitter.  I'm not reading the news on Twitter, either.)  Gloria would take a couple of hours to read the whole thing.  I'm reading headlines, and maybe a couple of paragraphs if the headline catches my interest.  In the past month, I doubt I've read more than half a dozen articles in full.

I'm working.  I'm working a lot.  Not very effectively, maybe, and I'm not as productive as I would be, or possibly should be (and, hopefully, will be again, at some point in the future).  So why not reading?

Is this a symptom of grief or depression, like loss of libido?  Is is that I'm grieving, and uninterested in other people, other events, other stories?  Or am I afraid to read, in case I stop working?

It's really strange ...