As I scour the pages of several random books to try and procrastinate my homework, I begin to think really abstractly. I think about the author’s mind, life, and experiences. How much knowledge, love, or pain is unintentionally gleaned in their writing. I think about the publishing process, the economics, the design, the machinery. The mass production and patenting of thoughts. I look down at the book in my hand. I feel its thickness, and think, “Every word on every page is simultaneously present…”

Light from the lamps in my living room bounce off the page and into my zealous eyes. The light is flipped upside down, absorbed into the retina and turned into electrical signals which criss-cross to opposite hemispheres of the brain.

Within this messy web of pinkish goo, the images are decoded into familiar symbols, and the interaction of these symbols reconstructs a thought that someone thought was important enough to write down.  The sentences flow together, the paragraphs and chapters organize in such a way to bestow a narrative progress of information and experience.

And then, as something inside my brain clicks on and pieces fall into place, magic happens. It is probably not exactly the same as the author’s thought, but it makes sense. And I feel the inescapable urge to tell all my friends. This is the magic of ideas.

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One response »

  1. an absolutely brilliant exposition of intimate thoughts one might have while reading! i must admit that i 100% find my view upon the subject in your description and can’t do more but thank you for the interesting post!

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