The Funny Feeling I Get When I Read
Most people I know can associate a certain feeling towards reading, which may range from euphoria, to excitement, to boredom, to plain indifference. However, unfortunately I haven't been able to place my feelings with precision when I carry out this activity. As far as I have identified the feeling, reading for me is not a passion but an obsession. I hope you can understand the difference between the two. It is always a very conscious effort that I make to read objectively whenever I open a book, and I have never been successful in this endeavour.
Whenever most of the bookworms start devouring a book they start getting vague hallucinations in their tiny brains which is accustomed to try and picturise all that they read. I am no different in this respect but the only other thing I start doing along with fantasizing is that I start thinking of spinning a similar story or I start cursing myself as to why I couldn' think of such a story in the first place. I start feeling helpless beyond a point and there is growing sense of inadequacy. Now I'm guessing everyone would agree with me when I say that inadeuqacy is not always a bad feeling, especially if you are driven to greater heights just to compensate for this kind of inadequacy. But whats bad is when the drive gets converted into a compulsiveness turning you into some kind of freak who keeps talking to himself in the nights and gets nightmares with fairies flying all around and sweet melodies playing in the background. When beautiful weather starts making you feel sick and you would rather have the sun beat harshly on your face than the tender sprinkling of the first few drops of monsoon, that is when you know that you have turned insane. On second thoughts, in such a case you would never know you are insane but only be subconsciously aware of the case(atleast I presume so...for I have never experienced my subconscious under any conditions).
Paranoia has crept into the way I read now, and I get the feeling that now I couldn't even read a Penthouse letter without commenting on the style that it has been written and the realism that it brings out. After reading anything I try and put pen to paper or rather fingers to keyboard and jot down whatever I can, but I've begun to realise that I am missing out on the true joys of simplistic reading. The simple juiciness and succulence of words as they flow describing how pools of water caress the hair of a damsel dressed in pure white and kissing the petals of the last yellow flower in a beautiful autumn monrning when the earth and heavens become one as if painted by the single stroke of that magical brush which only God could have created. But I can't help myself now and my only joy is in the constant struggle to produce something closely resembling art or something which closeley resembles a piece of writing. Success in this department has been minimal to say the least, but I guess I owe my thoughts and dreams to what I read. And so whatever funny feeling I get when I do so is welcome as long as I dont stop doing so. I hope you get the picture.
Whenever most of the bookworms start devouring a book they start getting vague hallucinations in their tiny brains which is accustomed to try and picturise all that they read. I am no different in this respect but the only other thing I start doing along with fantasizing is that I start thinking of spinning a similar story or I start cursing myself as to why I couldn' think of such a story in the first place. I start feeling helpless beyond a point and there is growing sense of inadequacy. Now I'm guessing everyone would agree with me when I say that inadeuqacy is not always a bad feeling, especially if you are driven to greater heights just to compensate for this kind of inadequacy. But whats bad is when the drive gets converted into a compulsiveness turning you into some kind of freak who keeps talking to himself in the nights and gets nightmares with fairies flying all around and sweet melodies playing in the background. When beautiful weather starts making you feel sick and you would rather have the sun beat harshly on your face than the tender sprinkling of the first few drops of monsoon, that is when you know that you have turned insane. On second thoughts, in such a case you would never know you are insane but only be subconsciously aware of the case(atleast I presume so...for I have never experienced my subconscious under any conditions).
Paranoia has crept into the way I read now, and I get the feeling that now I couldn't even read a Penthouse letter without commenting on the style that it has been written and the realism that it brings out. After reading anything I try and put pen to paper or rather fingers to keyboard and jot down whatever I can, but I've begun to realise that I am missing out on the true joys of simplistic reading. The simple juiciness and succulence of words as they flow describing how pools of water caress the hair of a damsel dressed in pure white and kissing the petals of the last yellow flower in a beautiful autumn monrning when the earth and heavens become one as if painted by the single stroke of that magical brush which only God could have created. But I can't help myself now and my only joy is in the constant struggle to produce something closely resembling art or something which closeley resembles a piece of writing. Success in this department has been minimal to say the least, but I guess I owe my thoughts and dreams to what I read. And so whatever funny feeling I get when I do so is welcome as long as I dont stop doing so. I hope you get the picture.
posted by Psychohistorian at 9:08 PM
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