Friday, May 22, 2015

Why don't you love reading books?

Reading books used to bore me.

I'm not a born book lover. It's not the first tool I held when I was a kid. I honestly thought that reading was a waste of time. How could you be sitting all day with just a book in your hands (Perhaps, you could now imagine how energetic I was when I was a kid)?

I remember, we used to have a mini library inside the house. By "mini" I mean the last (bottom) drawer in the filing cabinet. It was filled with books such as Goosebumps, fairy tale books and a lot of "choose your own adventure." We (my sisters and cousins) even made this cute hello kitty library card with our names on it. I can recall, my sisters used their library cards a lot. And I think I used mine once.

Looking at myself today, I can say that my perspective turned topsy turvy. If you would open my bag any day during the week, you would see a book in it. I always bring a book with me not because I want to put weight on my bag and build muscles but because I tend to read everytime I find a slightest dead time. Today, I am that kind of kid that the little Elaine thought was boring because I could manage to sit or stay in a corner all day with just a book in my hands. Suddenly, reading itself becomes a dwelling place for me. I love it.

It all started when I finished college. Fountainhead fell on my hands, then Mitch Albom's, then Paulo Coehlo's, then more classics especially Sherlock Holmes (my faaavorite!) and then self-help's. I cannot say it's the exact order but I'm certain it started with Fountainhead by Ayn Rand (Oh, just how I adored Howard Roark!) and was ignited by Sherlock Holmes by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (That genius everybody knows is rude is actually a face of passion). Later on, I found myself cherishing the aroma of freshly printed pages and sensing the weight of the book in my palms. I just developed a vice, and it's a good one.

Suddenly, I came to appreciate how a book brings me to places, such where I've never been and will ever be; how it lets me meet new people, who I know aren't real but feels otherwise; how it personally involves me in somebody else's life without actually intervening or affecting it; and how it can totally put me into somebody's mind and body and feel what he/she feels, see what he/she sees and think what he/she thinks.

It's strange, isn't it? It's like intentionally triggering autism whatsoever. But actually, books helped me keep my sanity in the real world. They opened my eyes, widened my perspective and deepened my thinking. Why that effect? Because books are just the written version of some people's thoughts. However, the magic of words makes a reader take a peek inside these people's heads. What if that's the head of a genius?