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I think it was Frank Zappa who said, “Too many books. Too little time.” Or something that goes that way. So I, being a little desperate, tried to get my hands on as many books worth reading. They are never enough. And the thought of not being able to read all the books I want to read before I die fills me with so much dread and despair. I am sure they will haunt me beyond this life.
Oh, books are not my first love. But they will be the last. I swear on it. They wield a certain power over me. I can always resist temptation, but when it comes to books, I go weak on the knees. I am willing to starve for a week just to buy the alluring object of my affection. That’s why I avoid bookstores like a plague. Most of the time, I succeed. Thank heavens for little mercies.
Recently, I was reminded how much books mean to me. They are my escape. When I’m sad, angry, restless, I seek solace in the pages of a book. They make reality more bearable. They make me forget about the petty and fleeting emotions that disrupt my monotonous existence. They make me realise I can fill gaping holes in my life with tales of faraway places and colourful lives led by people I can never be. They certainly make me feel less empty.
But don’t get me wrong. I read when I’m happy too. I read during the lulls of day to day living. I read because there is no other way to cure my curiosity and thirst for learning than to read more.
I believe we all have our own reading journey to tell. We experience the same story in different ways, after all. This is how mine goes. In this corner of my blog, you will find my ramblings about books, how they affect me and what I learn from them. I will also talk about the joys of reading.
You are welcome to join!