Because of all the busying over this few weeks, I haven’t been keeping up with my reading and I failed to read the books I previously borrowed from the school library. To be fair to myself, I must say I was tricked into borrowing one of those really profound books that has a childish cover page. It was really tricky in that the book had a colourful cover that said it’s title and since I decided that the title was something of my interest, I borrowed it – only to realised that the language and content is beyond my level.
Enough said about my present adventures with books, I have to agree with Scout in ‘To Kill A Mockingbird’, you don’t give a damn about things that you do everyday until you realise you probably can’t do it anymore – you are never gonna enjoying breathing this moment, or some other times later, but there’s gonna be a time when you truly appreciates it. Reading for me have come to such a natural state that I feel perfectly neutral to it. I have hated reading when I was a child for the mere reason of not liking the way letters, and the characters and symbols of each alphabets are designed. They just didn’t appeal to me and I sort of hated language as well, so I hate them altogether. I rarely read and most of the time, I look at the mindless comic strips that doesn’t even have dialogues or speech bubbles. For that matter, I must say I was once an ‘action-oriented child’.
It turned out that I started enjoying reading some time in Secondary Education, when I begin enjoy writing as well. The reading fueled the writing and the writing create this void or rather thirst for knowledge and thus a demand for things to read. So the cycle goes. I have always liked writing but in the past, I wrote in a different way – I think about things within my own world and I write. So I had a book on wooden human figures living with their families in this real-world-like world and with everything made of wood. There’s also another story (or perhaps series of stories) I wrote, which chronicles the operation of a charity organisation that helps children with different needs. I deceived myself and believe that imagination was all that I need.
It was later, when I stopped and observe, and stop living in the world I claim to belong and very much own, that I begin writing about the real world and criticising it. It started out as pure factual writings that had extremely neutral take on the world and superficial analysis of the context. As I write more, they all just got more sophisticated, and I couldn’t help. I just got addicted some way and continued to pen my thoughts profusely.
Having no time to read is bad, because there’s so many things you want to write about but you have no accurate content to speak of, no ideas about the real world through the eyes of others, and thus less to criticise. The things I know simply wouldn’t suffice for the big stuff I seek to write on. I am simply ranting now – not very much writing. Just ranting.