Read...
 

Read. Read anything. Read the things they say are good for you, and the things they claim are junk. You’ll find what you need to find. Just read.”
— Neil Gaiman.

I like the stress on the read part, being repeated so many times.. and the aimless reading that I do.. comes close.. that's what I do to block out thoughts.. of a strong book.. so I read another, and then I go on reading one maddening book after another and the next one, grave serious books.. So strong.. I can feel something tear inside me.. the breathing seems to hitch and stop, hitch and stop.. till I roll down on the floor crying.. because the book killed some hope that I probably could have gone by without hoping.. a book I could've passed by without picking when I know it had something as painful... and they leave a void inside my head.. as soon as I finish them.. like you're not sure if you're living real.. but then again, you're sure too at the same time.. because it's a routine you're used to accepting. You must open your eyes, however glazed they are from all the dreaming.. and go on. Happy to have at least had a life time where you could touch their minds. All those amazing dead people.. Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Hemingway, Hugo, Goethe, Buck..

 
Then I read the comics Garfield, Tintin, Chacha Choudary, Archies, Asterix and Obelix.. hahha.. the Powerpuff girls and so on.... listen to Enid Blyton's stories at bed time of Enchanted Woods and sweet school girls.. and calm down.. get into a soft love story or an animated movie with those Sakura petals falling slowly, ripples in the water and little girls, their kind parents and so on.. I gain peace.. like the sound of rain drops against my window when I'm cosily tucked up to my chin in a soft rug in my warm bed..


 I have no clue as to why I cannot stay at that equilibrium point.. but there slowly starts an itch, for something, a little more deep, wise or dramatic. And I tell myself, just one book, and I start with something a little serious, but not overly so. I feel refreshed, move it a notch higher, and higher and till I get to a very serious book.. followed by another.. again and again till it starts pounding in my head dhud dhud..

 
Recently I've asked myself as to why I read such books, any books for that matter.. I tell others , knowledge, wisdom whatever.. but I know that's not true.. I read to replace the emptiness that one book creates with another.. better the book gets, worse the emptiness it leaves at the last page.. and I don't know as to why the emptiness had to be there in the first place.. it all goes in circles, and if the cycle stops.. I don't know what I'd do with myself.. probably then I'd swim more.. or I'd  paint more.. but I'm not sure if they're as mindless or purposeless or so private. A picture, the minute you know that other eyes are going to see it, changes.. the innermost chord that it touches in you, gets veiled. Some stuff, you love so much, you won't have the strength to lay out all of it to judgement. Probably the artist needs to be mad to risk so much, or be utterly sure in his heart of hearts that he'll go unseen or unperceived. Books don't ask you for that.. there is no compulsion.. no risk of judgement.. no one judges you on what you feel for a book.. it is too easy to conceal. And the same thing with swimming, you don't have to be the fastest or the best or limit your emotions to the swimming pool timings. Books are definitely better, but that's not why I read them.. I don't think that's why anybody falls in love with anything.