How can you read words and sleep to wake up to another day just like that? I mean, how can you not let the words, the stories, the novels dwell, linger, breathe in you until you can no longer speak, read or write, or even live. Can a day pass without the effect of the words you read, on you? And what good would words be there? At the bottom of your being, breathing yet not breathing. Until their face appears on the surface, a strange being, something you cannot fathom; just because you gave them no chance to survive, to evolve.
You can't possibly want words to make sense if you just keep reading without breathing. Read and breathe in between. And give words at least half the amount of oxygen you give to yourself. Let them evolve. Let them prosper. Let them be. You. And I. And the world.
You can't possibly want words to make sense if you just keep reading without breathing. Read and breathe in between. And give words at least half the amount of oxygen you give to yourself. Let them evolve. Let them prosper. Let them be. You. And I. And the world.
Very deep and very well written. I like the part "And what good would words be there? At the bottom of your being, breathing yet not breathing."