April 24, 2016

Slow as a sloth

I'm not a fast reader, yes. I like to take it one chapter at a time. Ponder it over, linger about the literature and feel all its cuts and crevices. Hunt for the hints between the lines. Take in every word and breathe the contents deep in my soul.

Reading it fast, a lot of pages at a time, feels like disrespecting the author, her work, her talent, like defying her being. It is as good as running about in a museum and not savoring every piece of art, missing the details of the artifacts and taking just a glance, enjoying the outer beauty of the Grecian Urn and not taking a minute to understand what means what. Taking a nap and not going into deep sleep. Watching it rain from a distance and not getting soaked in it. Laughing but not being happy. Breathing but not living. Like remaining incomple. .


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