Ever woke up feeling shallow and naive? Ever felt that
no matter how many years you spend observing, contemplating, writing, and
creating are never enough? I am not talking about knowledge. I am talking about
that vast emptiness that seems to expand the closer you get. You know that kind
of black hole. It does not suck the life at of you; it does not make you
greedy. It makes knowledge empty.
Imagine this, you are in the greatest library ever; with the world's lost treasures, whatever subject you want you have it presented to you with a blink of an eye. You read, you go deep, you do your best to sink, yet you remain floating. You want to be fully immersed in the book, but not a chance. You keep reading waiting for the moment to finally come when you are unified with the book. You wait, you wait. Connection lost. You daydream. You are reading about Feminism and you are thinking of Sesame's Street and Kermit the Frog. You read literature, you try to enjoy it, to feel indulged, yet pages fly past your eyes and all you could think of is when will it end, when will I reach the climax? Depressing, sad, and downright unjust. You feel robbed of the one thing you have treasured the most. The gift of reading, of travelling everywhere any time. Trashy novels excite you more than deep well written literature. You lack suspense and patience. You lack imagination. You cannot visualize the protagonist; you cannot fantasize about him; you cannot speak to him. He refuses to come to life, to talk to you through the pages. He refuses to tell you his secrets. He is there, but invisible. He is the ultimate passive oxymoron. He is not taunting, nor is he ignoring. He just stares at you; page after page. You hear appraisal from him and his marvellous psyche and you are envious. Why cannot I participate? Why cannot I lift the dead? Frustration. You are dying to end the wretched novel.
It’s done, no more Jean, no more perfumes, no more scents lurking. He is dead, you are neutral. You cannot find it in you to be happy, vengeful, sad, or mournful. Nothing. You simply close the novel, and that is it.
You create excuses saying, you were not in the mood, but you know better. It was nothing; you felt nothing you wanted nothing. You could not even pretend to be revolted by his deeds; no you simply closed the novel. You did not give it a side glance. It did not exist. It never happened. Two weeks of reading and nothing. You doubt yourself and your ability to enjoy your one true love. Is life sucking it out of you? Has it been that long since you last read something that you forgot the sensation? Answerless questions and you remain void of anything. As emptiness wraps you in her cloak, you bow down and the scene ends.
Imagine this, you are in the greatest library ever; with the world's lost treasures, whatever subject you want you have it presented to you with a blink of an eye. You read, you go deep, you do your best to sink, yet you remain floating. You want to be fully immersed in the book, but not a chance. You keep reading waiting for the moment to finally come when you are unified with the book. You wait, you wait. Connection lost. You daydream. You are reading about Feminism and you are thinking of Sesame's Street and Kermit the Frog. You read literature, you try to enjoy it, to feel indulged, yet pages fly past your eyes and all you could think of is when will it end, when will I reach the climax? Depressing, sad, and downright unjust. You feel robbed of the one thing you have treasured the most. The gift of reading, of travelling everywhere any time. Trashy novels excite you more than deep well written literature. You lack suspense and patience. You lack imagination. You cannot visualize the protagonist; you cannot fantasize about him; you cannot speak to him. He refuses to come to life, to talk to you through the pages. He refuses to tell you his secrets. He is there, but invisible. He is the ultimate passive oxymoron. He is not taunting, nor is he ignoring. He just stares at you; page after page. You hear appraisal from him and his marvellous psyche and you are envious. Why cannot I participate? Why cannot I lift the dead? Frustration. You are dying to end the wretched novel.
It’s done, no more Jean, no more perfumes, no more scents lurking. He is dead, you are neutral. You cannot find it in you to be happy, vengeful, sad, or mournful. Nothing. You simply close the novel, and that is it.
You create excuses saying, you were not in the mood, but you know better. It was nothing; you felt nothing you wanted nothing. You could not even pretend to be revolted by his deeds; no you simply closed the novel. You did not give it a side glance. It did not exist. It never happened. Two weeks of reading and nothing. You doubt yourself and your ability to enjoy your one true love. Is life sucking it out of you? Has it been that long since you last read something that you forgot the sensation? Answerless questions and you remain void of anything. As emptiness wraps you in her cloak, you bow down and the scene ends.
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