I discovered them pretty late. The first one was a gift . Halfway through it, I quit. There were many others that I never go around to complete. The books on their part never judged me for it. There have been years when I’ve spent more time with them than with any living person. Other times they remain stacked on the shelves collecting dust. Its all good though, for they never complain.
It’s not far fetched to say that they have shaped me. They have shaped my thoughts, my demeanor and my passions. There are people in my life who are there because I read. I have spend countless hours discussing ideas with these people. Most of these ideas come from books.
It’s funny to see how reading them is promoted as a skill these days. They are being rated, as if they were a shower head that did not serve it’s purpose fully. They’re really not. They carry their existence not as inanimate objects but living beings. They have a soul. Reading is nothing more than being in someone’s company. They tell you about their experiences, their regrets, their struggles and triumphs. Some have give you advice that becomes indispensable in retrospect while the notorious ones, true to their nature, may misguide you.
I remember being mocked, scolded almost, for my habit of writing in books with pen. But I believe that the writing on the page tells a different story. A story of the bond that the reader share with the book. It’s the point where reading ceases to be a monologue and become a beautiful dialogue. Books carry this tale of dialogue with them wherever they go, long after we are gone.
I am grateful that books found me. They have made life beautiful.
What Shivam Says 