It behooves me to mention that my love for reading can, at times, border on obsession. I am consequently reminded of a quote from Sylvia Plath:
I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want. I can never train myself in all the skills I want. And why do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in my life. And I am horribly limited.
She hit that fucking nail on the head. I feel tremendously limited sometimes, as though my desire is to be a sponge of knowledge whose pores are open and ready to receive while the reality of the situation is that I’m a sponge whose pores are not open but rather clogged with the fallout of being a fucked-up human in an imperfect world. I desire more than I could ever consume. I seek more truth than my brain could possibly handle. I too want to read all the books. Every fucking one of them. I want to know everything about everything.
Some might say that means I want to be God. I don’t want to be God. I just want to be almost-God. (As I recall, Lucifer had a similar problem.)