I am undergoing a phase in my life when I think I’m addicted to reading. These past few days, because of the lack of things to keep me busy, I tried re-reading the materials available at my office desktop (yes, usually I go to work but majority of the time I spend there consists of reading non-work related books). I’ve been doing this for more than a month now, having finished two books and now on my third, not counting the one I read at home.
It feels so good, to stumble across some insights, relate it to yourself, to the world, and realized “Oo nga noh..” The fact that there are people (intellectual people) out there, who share your thoughts and were able to preserve them on paper or books, feels comfortable (with a little bit of excitement and happiness that I myself cannot even explain).
I remember once a quote (from Tado) from a book that says people who read books are intellectual people (or something like that). I totally feel this statement. Because every time I read, I gain something –bits of history; bits of reality; bits of truth; bits of information from other places/nature, without even going through Google. And then there’s topics that you don’t notice or are not important to you before, then suddenly you become interested with them, with their origin, with their tales. I feel a little more intelligent gaining something somehow, even though it was just a line, or a thought.
On the other hand, writing is as equally overwhelming as reading. It exercises your thoughts, to go deeper, to search for more articulate and brighter ideas in your mind, to help express yourself better; what you really feel and really want to convey.
Yesterday, while my mind was drifting far off, musing about this kind of stuff, I reminisce about the time in my youth where I write down stuff (the countless blogs, lyrics, poems, insights, life lessons..). I even checked a site of poems, where i have signed up for before, to see if my account still exists. Luckily, it’s still there. This site is still running, my account was preserved, and I was relieved. It’s good to see and re-read all those things that you created. I won”t even believe it myself as I scrolled after each poem and realized that they were written 7 years ago. Reading them now, I feel ashamed cos my words were really crappy then, but a little proud because I know that they sounded pretty cool from my perspective before. Haha!
Anyway, I just find it amusing how reading and writing can play a part in one’s happiness. Some do it for fun, some do it because it is necessary. For some, they do it to be inspired, or to experience or create the dream that they can’t have by means of being one of the characters. In my case, usually I do it to pass the time. However, I never expect to learn something from it, and I’m just really glad that I do get something out of it. 🙂
I love to do more of it from now on. I love the feeling of getting lost in the book from reading. I love the feeling of catching every word when I write because of the overflowing ideas/thoughts that I wanna say, scribbling excitedly and gaining callouses on my write (right) fingers –it’s like adrenaline rush for me.
Honestly though, I think it’s my frustration to be writer. I always wanted to write since I was a kid. I even had drafts of stories hidden somewhere in my treasure box. I spent my senior year in high school enjoying the benefit of having a journal and being able to share it with my classmates/friends. I spent my student allowance to buy notebooks (I used to save some coins from lunch money in order to buy notebooks) which soon became more like a written class forum (this time, my classmates tried to share the funding haha) than a personal journal. We even organized a poem contest, wherein willing students of my class will submit a poem of their own anonymously. And the rest of the class will determine the winner by voting for the poem of their choice. There are judges of course, one of them was our class moderator who wholeheartedly agreed to join in this event. What I’m trying to say is, this journal thing is somewhat public with the class but also private cos we write silly things about our teachers there. So basically, any involvement of any teacher would mean trouble. But since that was a poem-writing contest (a game of minds!), our moderator being involved was soon out of the issue. That part where I had/administered a journal/class forum, for the majority of my senior year, was one of the best years of my life. I was happy about the idea of it. The stage of adolescence was tough and somehow by writing through the tough times it became easier.
I don’t know why I never considered having a degree on journalism then. It was what I enjoyed. But thinking about it now, I think I became scared. Hell, even now I think I won’t sign up for it. I always thinks that being a journalist means you have to go out there, to interview certain people, to cover events, to face the camera and have your face known by the country. I wanted to write, but I’m afraid I might choose the path that will require me to do those kinds of scary things (sorry!). So I just resorted to apply for a computer course, and kept the writing thing to myself. It’s more reassuring and comfortable and I get to be closer with myself and get to know myself more. Additionally, it is also my means to express myself, when I cannot vocally/personally say it (because when I’m mad or sad or when I need someone to get my point but they won’t listen, I tear up easily, and who knows what will come out of my mouth).
Have I already said that I was thankful that I have the ability to read and write? Cos I know others can’t, yet I have this privilege. And if there will come a time where a part of my body will be removed/detached from me, under any circumstances, it should not be the eyes, or my right hand. It will be scary as hell.
Anyway, since this post has become so long, I will end this rambling.