Close Reading

I’m not one who enjoys annotating. It pulls me away from the page, and feels artificial—a facade I put on to get an A. But an A isn't as important as the world of words wincing woefully under the touch of my sinful pen. With every circle, square, and line, I can almost hear the paper cry out. Even the trees themselves must hate me. They hate all like me.

Take a lemon baller to your eyes and present them to the world. Then, with eyes wide shut, you see the world anew. Look at your frozen gaze as millions tarnish your purity with their self-given impunity, directed by unseen directors. This disdain isn't simply voiced by me, or even by the trees, but by anyone who loves literature. I dream of becoming an author, but even now, I refuse to annotate. Never by choice, but by obligation—you see, or rather, you don’t. Your eyes lay annotated in front of me. 

“What do you notice?” my mentor asks. And honestly, I couldn’t tell you, because I was too busy focusing on the task at hand. My page is filled with indentations of ink, yet my mind is blank. I am nothing but a goldfish. Words swim into my head, but within seven seconds, I get cold feet and forget they ever swam with me. Why, I am so full of potential to understand these greater worlds—worlds like Tolkien’s, Chaucer’s, too. But with pen in hand, I have absolutely no clue.