In a world that sprints, slow reading isn’t a speed, it’s a setting. Mine starts at night: I crawl into bed, tilt the bedside lamp so no stray shards of light catch my eyes, and aim that beam at the page. With my favourite reading glasses on and my chin angled just so, I nestle into the generous pillows that cradle my neck and shoulders. It’s a little fortress of focus.
Then, thud. The book hits the floor. I pretend it was just a micro-sleep and press on, but my eyes disagree. I surrender and call it a night. In a fast world, bedtime reading often feels like a quick cameo: tender… brief, then gone.
But some nights, everything aligns. I’ve skipped the sugary desserts, my restless legs are quiet, and the book I’ve been craving waits like a slow burn. It’s pure luxury, a sumptuous feast for the mind. I plough through the text without hurry, luxuriating in the moment, lost in time and place. The fast world is locked out in the cold while I drift like a suspended juggernaut through outer space at light speed, with no sense of time, only peace with the pace.
That’s the secret. You know that feeling, the one you wish could last forever.
All we need is a comfy spot, warm light, sumptuous pillows, and a great read.
We understand that here at Wordmonger, slowing down to deeply savour, and reflect is viewed as an essential.