No one loves anything until they realise it is susceptible to loss

Majority of the adults I have engaged in dull conversation with seem to associate reading a novel at a public event, with an unwavering, unrequited love for being entertained by the unquantifiable possible arrangements of the 26 letters of the English alphabet, printed and binded into a book. I do not believe the few that practise this ideology, “that because she is reading she must love reading”, have ever picked up a book themselves. Alas, I had never loved reading. Not through love do I pick up a text and read it, not through desperation either, or the enticing thought of escapism the world contained within that book may offer. A page is flipped at my hands, not influenced by any other emotion save my own curiosity. For, one does not love or cherish anything, until they have the awakening that it is susceptible to loss. Allow me to elucidate.

Prior to my attending high school, time to waste was something perpetually in my hands, free to avail of it whenever I pleased. Then, I did not love reading, for I had time. Eternal time. Then, I did not love reading, for I could read without a single thought tugging at, or demanding my immediate attention. Then, I did not love reading, for in my mind, I could never lose it. I could pick up a book whenever it appealed to me and spend hours on end intertwined in that world. It would not be until the start of high school, that I develop a place in my heart for this seemingly insignificant pastime.

It was suffocating. High school, I refer to. Once time was eternal, now with the mountains of work and tasks all with deadlines, that eternity that was once open to my use, decreases its limit daily. Two hours of free time wanes into one, one to half an hour and it only keeps lessening. Not until, picking up a book was considered a prize for ticking every arduous task off my list, did I love reading.

Humans are omitting creatures. We carry out every infinitesimal task with full neglect to our being able to carry them out. We forget that one day, the song of the mockingbirds will be far from our hearing, the feel of the ground beneath our bare feet would be nothing but a distant memory to reminisce upon, we might not have anyone to run to when hurting. Those that do remember, live steeling themselves, and forget to live. Those that live in remiss of what will inevitably come, will collapse under the sheer, sudden, knee-buckling, force of that wave when it crashes, and they will shatter to atomic pieces, and then feel a shudder course from their head to the very last molecule of the toes, at the slightest regard of what has come to pass. Both equally deleterious and consumptive.

One does not love breathing, not until they are choking or suffocating. One does not love walking, not until then lose the ability to stand and take step after lumbering step. One does not love one’s own kin, not until they have passed, or reaching them becomes burdensome. One does not love having two unblocked nose holes, in all its simplicity, until they have fallen ill and are forced to suffer the dynamic wrath of a blocked nose. I did not love reading, until I could not read with ease of mind. I doubt my parents loved me, not until they realised, one day, I won’t be there when they open my bedroom door, I won’t be eating at the same table with them, I won’t be living under the same roof.

I would like to end this post by encouraging parents to remind themselves of how much they love their child, and perhaps demonstrate and express that love to the juvenile delinquent in question by making the purchase of whatever largesse the child wishes for and desires :)

(Mum, Dad, $200 QBD or Dymocks gift card. At my door. By overmorrow)

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