I have recently been undergoing a quiet emotional rebirth. For a long time, in fact for the past few years, I had begun to notice a slow decline in my capacity to feel; Anything really. In a lot of ways, I am still not at the optimum level when it comes to feelings, perhaps I was always emotionally stunted, or the onset of numbness is something all of us go through after turmoil.
I think this renewed onset of feelings has to do with rediscovering my reading prowess. I am quite impressed by how much I can read without distraction. My mother recently asked me about my progress and I happily informed her about the many books that I had read in the last couple of weeks.
The transformative power of a good book is hard to explain. An immersive narrative can take the reader through a journey that has the capacity to provide immense satisfaction. How I wish, life could be like that. If everyday was a new adventure, one might never be prone to bouts of melancholy.
Then again, constant adventures can become monotonous and lead to ennui; something I dread. I have yet to start reading poetry again. Perhaps my renewed interest in fiction will progress to rediscovering my love for poetry, one can only hope.
I know that books and reading is terribly personal. But I can't help but feel that the world would be a much better place if there were more readers amongst us. This thought stems from my own emotional growth. Because, as I've discovered, there is no experience as thrilling as reading a story well told.
I think this renewed onset of feelings has to do with rediscovering my reading prowess. I am quite impressed by how much I can read without distraction. My mother recently asked me about my progress and I happily informed her about the many books that I had read in the last couple of weeks.
The transformative power of a good book is hard to explain. An immersive narrative can take the reader through a journey that has the capacity to provide immense satisfaction. How I wish, life could be like that. If everyday was a new adventure, one might never be prone to bouts of melancholy.
Then again, constant adventures can become monotonous and lead to ennui; something I dread. I have yet to start reading poetry again. Perhaps my renewed interest in fiction will progress to rediscovering my love for poetry, one can only hope.
I know that books and reading is terribly personal. But I can't help but feel that the world would be a much better place if there were more readers amongst us. This thought stems from my own emotional growth. Because, as I've discovered, there is no experience as thrilling as reading a story well told.
