The Most Patient Object in the House

A brief study of Someday

The most patient object in my house is a book.

It has been ready to begin a conversation with me for three weeks.

I have been ready to begin “properly.”

It sits on the side table with quiet dignity — not accusing, not dramatic, not even slightly desperate.

Bills panic.
Notifications blink.
Deadlines escalate.

Books, on the other hand, behave like well-brought-up guests.
They wait until invited.

Which is unfortunate, because humans specialise in postponing invitations that don’t shout.

Every night I tell the book the same reassuring lie:

“Not today. I want to read you when I’m relaxed.”

Life, impressed by my standards, ensures I am never relaxed.

We reserve time for emergencies.
We reserve time for obligations.
We reserve time for things that chase us.

But for things that enrich us…
we reserve a better version of ourselves.

That person has excellent discipline, balanced emotions, and drinks warm beverages thoughtfully.

We plan to become that person shortly after next week.

One evening, the internet stopped working.
Not dramatically — just stubbornly.

The Wi-Fi showed full confidence but no intention of cooperating.
Messages refused to send. Videos refused to buffer. Refreshing achieved fitness, but no results.

With the world temporarily unreachable, the room quietly returned to 1998.

With nothing urgent left to attend to, I accidentally became available.

So I opened the book carefully… just the first page, so it wouldn’t become a commitment.

The first page finished quickly.

Naturally, I read the second… out of fairness.

Then the third — out of symmetry.

And somewhere between paragraphs, time stopped reporting for duty.

Here is the strange part.

The book did not require an hour.

It required permission.

For weeks, I had postponed not reading… but participating.

Many meaningful things in life suffer from politeness.

They never remind us.
They never escalate.
They never threaten consequences.

So we classify them as optional.

And optional slowly becomes absent.

A call not made.
A walk not taken.
A story not opened.

Not rejected — just delayed beyond its lifetime.

When I finished the book, nothing dramatic happened.

No enlightenment.
No background music.

Just a small, steady satisfaction — the kind life offers frequently, and we accept rarely.

The shelf looked lighter.

Not because an object moved,
but because hesitation did.

We think important moments announce themselves.

They don’t.

They wait quietly like unopened pages, assuming we will eventually arrive.

We usually mean to.

We are just waiting to become slightly less busy before living a little more.

Somewhere near you right now is a beginning.

It will not remind you tomorrow.
It will not complain next week.
And one day, it will politely stop waiting.

Good things in life rarely demand time.

They only ask to be started —
before they quietly become things we once meant to do.

Now I may be wrong…

…but if there is a certain book in your house
kept safely aside because you wanted to read it properly,

please check on it.

It has been defending your intentions loyally for quite some time.

If the book happens to be You Told Me to Be Brave,
you should also know this:

Many people who opened it “just to see”
have complained that it kept behaving like an easy conversation instead of a serious reading commitment.

Some even finished it accidentally.

I did not design it that way.
I only failed to make it postponable.

The first page, in particular, has a reputation for being suspiciously approachable.

After that, any continuation will be entirely your responsibility.

Today, for instance, looks dangerously suitable.