I am going through a lot of contradictory emotions lately. At times I feel like buying a lot of books. I cannot wait to have a house of my own one day and have a small book corner. I want to devour every book from every genre out there. But at times I get very sad or weird. I ask myself what’s the point of all this? What’s the point of buying so many books? I don’t even know if I can read all the books I own in my lifetime. If I have a son I most probably won’t be able to pass them to him because he might think all my books are very girly. If I have a girl she might even hate reading (gasp). Yes, they make me happy when I see them arranged on my shelves. But sometimes I feel that’s not enough. What’s the point in spending so much time reading when I could be doing other things? Yes, it enriches my brain, it makes me happy and all that. But sometimes even that doesn’t register.
My logical side of the brain knows that this is not true but sometimes it just shuts off. The only thing I can do at times like these is not read anything for 2-3 days or until I realize what I’m missing which invariably happens when I’ve read the bus ticket or the back of a cereal box too many times. Sometimes I just open my Google Reader and read all the blogs out there and it makes me realize why I read so much.
Thankfully I don’t usually question the existence of my blog. Because I know if I don’t have any bookish things to talk about, you guys will still show interest and comment on my posts while I get my reading mojo back. This is what makes me come back to my blog and keep it running. I know I can say almost anything that comes to my mind and not be judged. We book bloggers are a compassionate and patient lot. We encourage each other and understand each other as well. Thank you for that.