I paused for air, this was heavy going and I badly needed a break.

 

Had I written all this, had I been studying ancient history, could I be this dry in the manner of the words I had chosen to write? This was not the sort of technical précis or report I had regularly compiled during my engineering career but some sort of historical writing.

 

I had never written anything remotely along historical lines. My technical reports were interesting and occasionally lively, at least I thought they were, but this was something else and yet I found myself strangely drawn to it.

 

When had I done my research, where and of what? Something about it rang true, ticked a box or two somewhere and I was definitely drawn to reading more. Perhaps these feelings were simply the result of writing the words, which I had to assume that I probably did; my name was on the front cover.


I felt compelled to move on to the next chapter, my thoughts were racing, the reading was becoming compulsive and, worst of all, I was developing a simultaneous urge for the strange fruit juice. I needed more the further I read and I had the uncontrollable urge to go on reading.

 

In these few moments I came to the realisation that I was developing an addiction for both. If so, then one was possibly self inflicted and not so pleasant while the other seemed to be essential for my continued well-being and was becoming most enjoyable.

 

I recalled similar feelings experienced by the essential reading of some dry technical treatises in my engineering career of various obscure subjects.

 

As on those previous occasions I needed a break from it but the longer that break lasted the greater the urge to continue. I queried with myself if this was this some sort of technical masochism that develops or somehow occurs naturally in engineers; I had no idea and trying to figure this out hurt more than asking the question.

 

I sorely needed some refreshment and perhaps five minutes, no more, away from the written word. This to allow the confusing fog, not of the content of the book but of my thoughts on how I came to write such stuff, and worse, read it with such a compulsion, to clear away.

 

Before I could turn another page of the still open book sat in my lap and remove my gaze from the empty pitcher sat there within my dumb gaze, more of the fruit juice was delivered by the nurse who simply smiled knowingly at me. She lifted the empty pitcher and replaced it with a fresh full one that was clearly well chilled as condensation was forming and running down the glass exterior. I received another light smile from the nurse, to which I responded in similar fashion as a new glass full was poured out for me. Another glancing half smile from some secret she held within came in my direction before she gently turned on her heels to walk towards the seamless door in the far wall.

 

In a moment she had vanished from view, the door had opened and closed by itself without a sound and again, I could not spot the boundary between it and the wall.

 

I reached for the chilled juice in my full glass and drank deeply, as though quenching some deep thirst; was it a thirst for more juice or for more words?

 

Turning back to the book of words laid out before me, my enthusiasm seemed to have been restored and I eagerly turned to the next page; dry words or not I had to read on.