And so , to read.

Have you ever gotten lost in a book, found your self rippling progressively out of Societies penalizing, and constraining state of mind like when a stone breaks the delicate skin of a silent lake? A book is neither wrong nor right in its speech; it only exists to portray one pinpoint, one moment to speak out savored words, lecturing another’s thoughts in paragraphs of mixed tongues. Simply put, a book has no today or tomorrow, nor future or past, neither does it outgrow its purpose; it simply exists in a community which has outgrown the frequency of its voice and chooses to listen no more. And yet, even when a book may not recount the author’s diversity, we understand why they have made specific choices, and why we have made ours, undoubtedly a good book leads to better understanding the thudding hearth we keep irrationally to ourselves. Thus, before we truly acknowledge it, we are engulfed in the lust to understand and adapt and believe in the impossible; or the events that we are never too certain we will actually sense on our skin or see through our flawed minds. Only too thirsty to drink on the illogically fascinating judgment of the imagination.