A rather wise individual took some time out of a semi-important meeting today to make a vital point.
Severely misquoting him, he said, “It’s amazing what reading does for the mind…It’s like fertilizer for the brain.” I agree wholeheartedly with his assessment; it is a deep regret that I don’t have more time to devote to the deeply enriching, meditative, and, quite frankly, utterly-necessary-to-the-survival-of-our-species, act of picking up a book and digesting its contents.
Reading is the fire that Prometheus stole from the gods that he was soooo severely punished for; it is time travel, wisdom sharing, mind-reading, captured empathy, and the only way we keep our humanity evolving from the static state it can be so easy to rest in.
But more than reading is another act: writing.
Painting, photography, design, coding, and creative pursuits of all kind can change the world by adding never-before-seen beauty.
But only writing serves as the snake’s tail to feed the infinite head of Ouroboros that is reading.
Writing is stressful, difficult, frustrating, and, at times, a pathway to total despair. However, it is also a way to touch the underlying fabric of this whole thing we call life and add to the cacophony of words out there in the world. (And maybe be read by someone, anyone.)
It is also cathartic as hell in a way that reading can never be.
I aspire to do a far greater amount of writing in 2017 than I have to this point. (Especially after a bit of a self-imposed hiatus.)
There’s the rub.