Read and read

The reader in me is not a strict disciplinarian, hardly discerning between a whole newspaper, a fragment of paper floating by, clippings, magazines, new and discarded sometimes ancient wrapping paper text. I peer over shoulders in elevators and trains to catch a glimpse of the book others are reading and sometimes I co-read if I can catch a few paragraphs or pages depending on the length of the journey. Such desperation!

When it comes to reading just a glimpse will do to draw me in; everything else gets sidelined. This probably explains why my mother always undertook the task of sorting through old magazines and newspapers and never gave it to me! And in those few instances when she did, it was always under her strict supervision. With any reading material I lose track of time; I could start reading in the morning and before I realise my stomach reminds me that it’s afternoon and time to eat.

But before you judge me, I don’t read everything. Some things are beyond my endurance or understanding. For example self-help books; I just don’t get them. I do know a lot of people who’ve changed their lives (like the authors and the publishers) but honestly it doesn’t work for me. Philosophical books are out and those espousing the same through fiction are therefore by extension never looked at. All Paulo Coelho fans, no disrespect meant, but I just couldn’t get through ‘The Alchemist’. (And if it’s any consolation ‘The Da Vinci Code’ also didn’t do anything to hold my interest).

My reading habit is not an obsession or addiction; it has moved way beyond that long ago. It’s more like a necessity, much like the air I breathe. Each day I troll the information highway for things to read. I’ve grown, adapted and changed; my allegiance will always lie with books that I can touch and feel even though I’ve shaken hands with their digital counterparts. Reading is reading to me; whether I do it online or on paper hardly matters these days.