The other day, I just had to do it. Something was beckoning me. Calling me. It’d been awhile.
I had to force the Macbook off of my lap and grab a real book.
As soon as I did, the magic hit me.
There’s something about a real, honest-to-goodness book-book. Something tranquil about thumbing through those paper pages — the smell, the sound, the visceral earthiness of it is just so ideal for the kind of mental zone reading should put you in.
I don’t do this nearly enough. But I’m finding more and more of my life going back towards things more… bookish. More hand-operated. More manual.
Bits and pixels have their place. But the paper page is where it’s at.