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On Reading

I read because I know what I don’t know. And because I don’t know what I don’t know. I read because it turns what I don’t know I don’t know, into what I know I don’t know, into what I know, and that helps me grow.

I read because I dream. And because my dreams lack direction and discipline. I read because it turns those dreams that are nothing but dreams, into goals, processes and actionable steps, into tomorrow’s to-do list, and that helps me live.

And so it goes.

I read because I feel. And because my feelings sometimes run amok, wild and free. I read because it turns those thunderous clouds of negativity — mixed emotions, jealousy, insecurities — into droplets of clarity, confidence and congruity, into words that I can then wax poetic to another, and that helps me love.

I read because I escape. And because I want to understand the past and prepare for the future. I read because it turns those nostalgic visitations to the past and controversial visions to the future, into awareness of my escape from the present, into appreciation of now, and that helps me be.

And so it goes.

I read because I write. And because writer’s block is very real. I read because it turns what white space lies before me, into words, quotes, notes and then a stream of consciousness, into structured sentences of complex syntaxes, and that helps me contribute.

I read because I connect. And because I often run out of things to say. I read because it turns those moments of awkward silences and idle small talk, into an exchange of ideas, theories and deep philosophical discussions, into sparks of passion and laughter, and that helps me belong.

I read because it’s my happy mundane.

And so it goes.

On the Transitory Nature of Happiness and Sorrow

On Solitude

On Solitude