It seems like people either read a lot or people talk a lot. If we're lucky, we do both in equal measure. I think people can spend long portions of their life reading and typing, or reading and having that one long conversation with that one friend every week or month or so, but people who read a lot need a lot of alone time to accomplish all of that reading. On the one foot, the more we read, the more we might have to say. On the other foot, the more we do, see, converse, trip, fall, break our bones, the more stories we might have to tell. The stories of our minds and their tangentially abstract adventures are kept in books, but are not as astounding, and frequently harder to convey the humor of, to most folks at social gatherings. Except for those rare social gatherings that are intended for the academics or the theoreticians or the philosophers.
I live within this unending equation. To read? To speak? To live? To reflect? To experience physically? To experience mentally? What does it mean to experience mentally? Can you live after dwelling in a mental moment? Can you reflect on reflection? All of those books that wait for me. That I will one day wade through, or not wade through. That I will pick up and carry around and hope to one day live through.
Those that read to escape. Those that reject reality. I guess I have chosen to reject reality through action, through imagination, through music mostly. Less through words. Words are tied to deadlines. Like so many, school has killed my love of reading for imagination's sake. Will it be resurrected soon?
Will I stay with music and film and forget about the beauty and transportation of words that are bound in thick books?
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment