Years ago I used to plough through dense and complex, convoluted prose and at the end I’d not only still be standing up I’d be seeking out more to read. As though I was starving (although that was literally true at the time). Henry Jamesian novels with sentences that seemed to go on for half a paragraph. Things in the newspapers that were pages long.
I used to read things that sparked me to join my own dots together, but now I read things and it’s as though I’m watching other people knitting garments for themselves (I kept trying to explain what I mean here but I can’t figure it out). I can’t get through two pages. I read a blog post and I’m no, no, no, I can’t do this. Though what it is that I can’t do, I don’t know. Every little thing seems too important, I don’t think things will work so I’m reluctant to do anything, but am scared to do nothing.