Threading Books

Completely difficult. That is all I have to say.

I could not find the words to say, the words to describe, and the words to express.

Last night I already planned how I will start this, well, at least a few lines just to warm me up.

I said to myself before I slumped onto my pillow that I will start with books.

In more ways that I could think of, perhaps I had always sought novels as sanctuary - a glimpse into what I was feeling at that particular moment - a simple escape route for when I need it much.

Somehow I find it intriguing how I would seek books then suddenly find myself caught up by the moment of reading - at home, in malls, in the MRT. I would get myself too engrossed I could not care less about the people around me.

There are times that I want to feel magical and whimsical, like Neil Gaiman's works, where anything goes. That I want to feel what it would be like having powers I could never dreamt of having. The part of me that wants to look at the world like miracles and supernatural activities are feasible yet no explanation could be ascertained from such. A part that just blows out my imagination, and for a time, I would listen to what my heart is saying and just go with it: succeed or fail will not even matter.

Then, there are moments I want to feel adventurous and brave, courageous to say the least, like Dan Brown's Robert Langdon. That while reading the book I feel that I could gallivant around Tondo, Recto, Divisoria, and dark alleys searching for something. It could either be something concrete or an abstract. Even I could not guess. Where my feet takes me that is where I go. And I shall head to where it is with much gusto.

Of quite a few times I have also sought melodrama. Arlene Chai's The Last Time I Saw Mother and Eating Fire And Drinking Water made me well up in tears. Yes, I nearly sobbed inside the MRT! So it is true, sometimes we just want to feel what the characters are feeling - of sorrow, of despair, of bliss, of simple joys, of tears of happiness...that somehow our current emotion will be swept away and completely taken over with the character's.

And perhaps the most fascinating are the Japanese authors Kazuo Ishiguro and Haruki Murakami. They have such different styles of writing from the Western authors that I myself am surprised how contrasting their books are from say, Elizabeth Kostova  or, hmmm...Nicholas Sparks. Primarily, I did not like Murakami may be because his book South Of The Border, West Of The Sun did not move me much. Heck, I did not even notice where the climax was. So I was disappointed the first book I read from him. Then I recently purchased and read Kazuo Ishiguro's Never Let Me Go. The book tells much about emotions and feelings. Like how certain people grow from each other, learn how each burst of emotion can be evaluated and in turn make it into something positive and constructive. Their works have all this certain subtlety. Yes, I think that's the perfect description, subtlety plus profundity. They would never lay out all the cards for you hence, the ending gets nipped short.


Well may be I am writing too much now, after all, if you have noticed some of what I write actually has a continuation. But now I want to finish this. I don't know but somehow this post feels very different to write. And this is in a good way.


I want to finish this because I felt compelled to end this even if my creative juices go out of stock for a time.


So what do I really want to express on this one?


Nothing really too important. I guess, the very special attribute that I have learned to deal with during these times of reading books and novels of all sorts is I learn from them. That simple moments of reading can do wonders. I still don't know how it does that but I sure know it changed me in a distorted, convoluted, tortuous, mixed kind of way.


And this is coming from someone who just turned a quarter of a life.