Its been almost 11 years with books, on and off and suddenly I realize, they will form the most integral part of my personal journey. It is a surprisingly strange and nervous feeling, since what you once took for granted, becomes that one source of escape and exploration, and everything around you seems to take a back seat while you watch yourself grow all those years through that particular medium. There are sometimes, when leaving a book is more painful than not having spoken to a friend or not having had a good night's sleep. Possibly because, I want to be with book more than I can afford to. The exasperation that I feel when I cannot sit up in the morning, after being awake and spending at least an hour reading, is something that almost chokes me to tears. What then would I truly define as passion? for the act of reading, and the feel of books forms a world that I've always craved and hungered for. At the same time, that distance, that slight ache of not being ever present in that constant state of story telling, fills me up with a silence so profound that redefining, re-articulating seems a futile option.
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Its been almost 11 years with books, on and off and suddenly I realize, they will form the most integral part of my personal journey. It is a surprisingly strange and nervous feeling, since what you once took for granted, becomes that one source of escape and exploration, and everything around you seems to take a back seat while you watch yourself grow all those years through that particular medium. There are sometimes, when leaving a book is more painful than not having spoken to a friend or not having had a good night's sleep. Possibly because, I want to be with book more than I can afford to. The exasperation that I feel when I cannot sit up in the morning, after being awake and spending at least an hour reading, is something that almost chokes me to tears. What then would I truly define as passion? for the act of reading, and the feel of books forms a world that I've always craved and hungered for. At the same time, that distance, that slight ache of not being ever present in that constant state of story telling, fills me up with a silence so profound that redefining, re-articulating seems a futile option.
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