Sometimes I swear there are magnets on my soul.
Sometimes I open the right book - and after a decade or so of practice it is often the right book - and we snap together, the story starts, the pages in my left hand are stacked higher than those in my right, and then it's over, done. I'll surface like someone emerging from a parallel universe and blink at my surroundings thinking, "oh, right. This is Here. Wait. What time is it?"
Other times, I will open the right book and it is less like being swept along and more like the slow burn of running. It takes time, but the momentum grows and soon the magnets are humming and then lights start flickering and sometimes I'll even have to stop, panting, to chase the burning tales of ideas or concepts or understanding as they spiral outwards, rolling phrases around in my mouth like marbles, listening to the rumble of concepts falling into place.
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