Somehow, for some beings, the word alone has a ring to it.

Something seems to be alive therein, seems to be whispering.

And sometimes, a glance can be caught.

 

To reveal what is hidden, to feel ones eyes opening, to know instead of to assume, to feel the breath of life instead of thinking about it, those are some of the desires the ringing awakes.

 

To walk steady, on stable ground in the flux which is life itself.

 

The desire to read is something awakening from longing for knowing that what is hidden, thus unknown.

It is curiosity in its purest form, craving to touch that what is real yet elusive.

 

And "a reader", that is something one becomes – one of the very few instances where those who are readers are also in agreement with each other!

 

This "to become a reader", while stemming from a pure well of childlike curiosity, is, at the same time, subject to the changes happening to a person while growing up.

While the child still feels the mystery present in a simple drawing consisting of a view lines more or less resembling something which could resemble something, the grown-up often has not paywalled but thoughtwalled said contact.

The grown-up does insist that something has to be represented in a specific way for it to be an authentic representation having the capabilities to touch upon what is deemed mysterious, while more and more things have been deemed devoid of said mystery.

Old men become grumpy, old women gnarly.

Those who retain their childlike self are first subject of laughter, later of jealousy.

The more of it a being contains, the higher the likelihood that it experiences taunt and ridicule.

 

We digress, in the truest sense of the word.

 

For a child, to read is an adventure by itself, for the letters themselves are still unknown – once the letters are learned, it is the words which captivate its attention.

Then, sentences. Paragraphs. The beginning and the end of entire stories, and what has unfolded in between.

And then, what was not written but expressed nonetheless, for it could be read between the lines.

Poetry and Prosa.

 

The howl of the owl.

 

Where it returns to.

 

We will also return.

 

First, we briefly enter the world of grown-ups, of contest, of the need to set apart instead of to unify.

The Me, which deems itself all grown-up and is satisfied when it sees nothing but itself as that of value. Which strives to amass what it has deemed valuable, for its own eyes and the eyes of others, so that those others see this Me as valuable.

So that it sees itself as valuable.

Before the void comes striking.

 

Here is the second contact.

Now, it is not curiosity but helplessness which leaves no other option but to turn to the unknown, the arts once deemed worthless and haughtily overlooked, but they did live on while oneself feels devoid of said life.

During the second contact, the thoughtwall has to crumble, while pride still tries to keep the tiles together.

One will be thrown for a loop if calling is unheard - life's cruel repeat.

 

Lucky those who can resist and let go what was lost.

 

Here is the howl again, and deep it is, enough for some to sink.

 

So what does that have to do with being a reader?

Is it not about climbing up the ladder, of knowing what is what, which script, or, inside the world of cards, which deck is best? Which methodology?

How to read it, what means what? For me and for you?

 

And is there not this thing of "going pro"?

And for those who are not, to amass at least a thousand reads?

To master and feel masterful?

 

All of that has already been covered. Those are the tiles.

To those who have become readers, a thousand reads is a laughing matter.

It became second nature, the number insignificant.

It is missing digits either way, so why bother?

 

When the Me has left its throne, its castle ruined, that is when what You Are can, once again, guide your attention.

That is when warmth emanates from the middle of your chest, when awareness for the treasure which is inside grows.

 

And that is when affinity comes into play, a leaning, so to speak.

This affinity is no longer what the Me of former times wanted, or liked, or thought it would fancy, or hoped it would be that way if it only proclaimed it loud enough, no.

 

This affinity is no longer a suit but your very skin.

It is, above all, true to you, and cherished.

To like it is no longer interesting, you live it and breath it.

 

As you are a reader, you will have read your way here. You did look into things. You did decide which steps to take. And: You made it.

 

You see the script of this world flowing, whatever your occupation may be.

 

The way you read then consists of what need has refined inside of you, while your leaning made its blandness suit your taste.

 

It is no longer something to spice your life of everyday with.

It will likely be the other way round.