I guess it’s time for another somewhat random post where I ask a question. I was reading a book recently, and a bizarre feeling came over me. Every other sentence seemed to be familiar. I could recite some of them after reading just the first word. I didn’t know the story, nor did I have any recollection of reading the word before, but it certainly felt like I have read it.
So the question is…
What is it like when a book feels like home?
The blast of cacophonous clamor came suddenly. It was strong, vibrant, and discordant. It blared with extreme strength. The noise penetrated the thin walls and resounded within the bedroom. It seemed to come from no specific direction, and it had a jarring rhythm which made everything inside quiver. Continue reading
The cry was strong, loud. It echoed through the house with unforgiving repetition. Stephen rolled off his bed and onto his feet. His wife, as always, was deaf to the screams. Her sleep was impervious to any and all noise. He gazed at the pillow one last time, but soon he was called again. He felt as if someone plunged a lance through his head every time a scream resounded through the walls. He knew he could practically forget about the midnight snooze. Continue reading
Matt Ernest didn’t mind it. It never badgered him, unlike some of his coworkers. They seemed to either ignore it, or frown upon it. It was something they never talked about, for it was too infantile, or so they said. Continue reading
So today I’d like to do something slightly different. I’d like to bring up a question. This post will probably fall into a new category, thoughts.
The question that I have in mind is very basic.
Why do we read?