“All that is gold does not glitter
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be blade that was broken:
The crownless again shall be king.”
In an age in which
the art of reading for joy is becoming something of a classic…
the sight of a child reading on a bench is close to an antique…
the tradition of storytelling for knowledge is slowly being extinct…
I still read.
So why do I read?
Reading fills your lungs with a magical oxygen that the atmosphere cannot provide.
Reading fills your mind with insights your textbook won’t provide.
Reading rattles the heart, word by word, letter by letter, as they all sink in.
Reading awakens fragments of your dormant self you had no idea you wanted to awaken.
Reading helps you find yourself amidst this chaotic world.
Reading fills you with a joy that materializes as a delightful laugh.
Reading brings life to the dead heart, and reminds the beating heart of the reality of death.
Reading combines hope, sorrow, love, despair, anger, bitterness, perseverance, patience and an astonishing array of other emotions into a plot and sweeps you off your feet with it.
Reading creates a sense of empathy, walking in another’s imaginary shoes, so much so that it feels almost bizarre when you have to put the book down and put your real ones on.
Reading opens new windows to the same world, so that you may see seemingly dull things as most beautiful indeed.
Books. That’s why I read them.