What Is The Point Of Reading?

Really, why do we read? I can’t say how many times I’ve got the same advice: read. Some writers even say the best writing advice they’ve received is, “read as much as you can. Read anything and everything you can lay hands on.”

But I’ve also seen people who never read. People who are too lazy to pick up a paperback, or to drag a hardcover along. Think they’d rather prefer the kindle? Nope, they are tech junkies.

Come to think of it, in a world without traditional schooling, you don’t have to read at all. Except of course, the statuses on Facebook and the incessant chattering on Twitter. You just wake up, eat, go out with friends, earn some cash, spend more than you make (so you have something to regret later on in life), grab a drink with a friend while checking your phone every other minute, and then go home to bed.

Where would you be reading? Why would you be reading at all?

But then, days pass by. You’d grow tired of the same pitcher you’ve gotten from the same pub for years together, your burger would taste same o’l, same o’l and soda would just leave you bloated.

Friday evenings would become painful. You would slump on your couch all evening, uninspired to even switch on the television. Life would go on, in a straight road; no speed breakers, no potholes, no jerks, no jokes. Lifeless.

Suddenly it would all seem dry, plain and dull. Your world would become much smaller than it used to.

And then one day, someone would hand you a book. Nothing fancy, just The Jungle Book.

And life never is same.

Why else would we read?

The Weirdness That Is Life

Weird thing, life.

One year you’re as close as overgrown nails and skin, and the next thing you know, you’re shaking hands, and wishing your friend a “happy married life” part ways — to meet again probably never.

And a few years later, you hear of a child — a sweet girl with rosy lips, cherry cheeks with a smile as warm as your friendship had once been.

And then comes the routine of raising kids — the phase of life where you lose yourself for your kids, their life and their routine: you eat when they sleep, you pee when they sleep and you sleep never. Running around carrying drenched diapers in one hand and fresh ones in the other, you don’t even have the time to reply to the tiny “ping” that your smartphone isn’t smart enough to mute.

Time goes by, and with every extra inch of luscious tresses the daughter caresses, you end up rolling up inches of the grey hair you just managed to pull out from your morning combing ritual. The bounce decays, curling humbly into a neat bun, snuggled out of the way.

Those rimless fancy glasses appear less and less attractive as your definition of attractiveness transcends to comfort and horn-rimmed.

Sleeveless and showing skin hits you as awkward and vulgar. You constantly ponder, “Where’s the world going?” as short skirts become inner wear and below-the-knee becomes the only decent and suitable length. Sequins and glitter stones weigh you down; black, white and grey look more like colors; grace means something different altogether, and walking becomes mandatory exercise.

Gentle knee rubs are the new leisure activity, though stumbling with latest technology isn’t new at all. You stare at old tree barks wondering, your mind wandering, and your fingers fumbling on the phone, wishing for the familiar ringtone — the ringtone that’s been in the coming for some time now.

And one bright summer’s day, the phone would ring, and you would again fumble in your haste to pick up, in your haste to speak to someone — anyone who’d listen. And someone speaks; says they have a message — not a good message they say, and say: your closest nail has been clipped.

You bleed.

And then, you heal… until you’re clipped — once and for all.

Weird thing… life.

Enchanting Much, Is the Order of Words

English insanely makes sense. No matter how you rephrase a sentence, there’s always meaning.

Desire is the pendulum never content.
The pendulum that desire is, is never content.
Never content is desire, the pendulum.
Never content desire — is the pendulum.
Never content — desire is the pendulum.
The pendulum of desire is never content.
Never content — the pendulum of desire.
Pendulum — desire, never content.
Never content pendulum is desire.

I read in Zinsser’s On Writing Well about rephrasing words for a better effect, and being ever so curious, I tried it. I cooked up a random sentence and rephrased it in many ways, and it still made sense.

Ho English!

Speaking of Sentimentality…

If there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that sentiment is a double-sided dagger. As much as I love being sentimental about tiny everyday things, I also regret being ever so emotional.

I know I keep bringing this up, but it’s all about my mother. She annoys me more than anyone else can — or will ever dare to; she calls me at awkward times, keeps repeating the same questions every day, and she’s always popping up everywhere –even when I wish she wouldn’t.

It’s annoying to have a mother that cares so much. But it’s painful not to have a mother that cares as much.

Perhaps it’s because she was always around me as I grew up, but I’ve grown comfortable around her so much that I take the liberty to shout at her without feeling guilty. She made a huge blunder not curtailing that habit of mine. Still, she takes it all in as I shout at her, because she knows I mean not a word of it.

And once I hang up and stare at my phone, realizing how much she must love me to bear with all my mood swings, I can’t help but feel evil. With her being everywhere — even at the back of my mind while I wake in the morning — I care much about her.

I don’t know about her, but every twelve hours, I have an internal alarm that goes off reminding me that it’s time for her pills. And despite having alarms in her phone, she forgets, and nods her head solemnly as I chide her for abysmal medicine memory.

That’s the trouble with caring too much — it hurts me when she’s hurting. I’ve seen what she goes through when she forgets her medicine, and it pains me to even imagine that pain.

And it gets even more annoying when she just shrugs it off with a toothy laugh. On one hand, I love watching her laugh, and on the other, I’m furious that she’s so negligent.

She checks with me five times a day if I had eaten my proper meals, and in the proper time, but she never takes her medicines in the proper time.

Urgh! Her sentiment often puts me off. So much nagging and caring for me, yet not much caring for herself. But it also makes me call her back a second — or third — time, to apologize in a small voice.

After all, moms are the best, aren’t they?

What Is The Point Of Writing?

I like to write when I’m not doing anything else. And by anything else, I mean, eating, sleeping, or watching food porn.

Since I spend quite a lot of time writing — what, you ask? Well, don’t. Anyway, what is the whole point of writing?

When you think of it, it’s nothing really.

Most people tell you the point of writing is “To share with the world — things you can’t show.” or “To educate people about something.” Better yet, “To share feelings.”

Thing is, you can do all those stuff, without writing. Why write when you can tell? We all like to speak, so why write it down? Nothing we ever write will stand for eternity — preservation ended with great literates, there are too many people who write nowadays — we can’t preserve them all forever.

Then why bother writing at all? What’s the point of spending time and energy — not to mention paper, ink, or screen time — if you’re one of those technology buffs — on something that’s seemingly pointless?

Everything we ever write — thoughts, opinions, comments, detailed explanations, stories, poems — everything you can think of, you can also speak and record. Besides, isn’t spoken word poetry already a thing? And audio books?

So why do we still write?

Not one of the countless reasons really explains the need to write.

It’s Thursday and you’re at work. You’re bored and flipping through a magazine, and you suddenly feel like you have to write. Like your fingers want something to do — other than flipping glossy pages of size zero models. There is a sudden not-so-gentle nudge that wants you to drop everything else and just write. You don’t know what to write, or how to write; there are too many thoughts in your mind. It’s almost noon; you’re feeling mildly hungry; you’re thinking of that holiday you so badly deserve; the project that needs some final touches; then again the Caribbean holiday with boozy sangrias — before you realize you’re a little short of cash, and then — from nowhere — comes the thought that the following day your salary gets credited — after all those taxes, of course. But in the middle of all these thoughts, is something, a little lightbulb, a spark of light, that tells you to sit and write.

And that’s why we write.

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