art in an aching body

I am not much of a reader though I am surrounded by books. It is not that I collect to deceive I collect to perceive, to understand. I am a bibliophile not because it has the market value of an intellectual because an intellectual can also be a shepherd doing carpenter or a slave or even a business employee doing the errands and negotiations that surrounds people.

I don’t read chronologically at times I read circularly in snippets in little bits but I attempt to retain what I have learned. Knowledge is  a cavern , a sea, a sky, a universe blended in an corn or even in the summer heat; it is a paradoxical chronicle, a geographical nomad and that is why it is so satiable, so fulfilling. I love to read as Umberto Eco said that literature is an healing tonic. In my opinion any reading, literature, religious, mathematical or even architecture based and medical is a tonic for the human soul ( or even the soul of Jinns) which craves to understand a world here, elsewhere, after death. It is primary food along with the food our bellies and blood ate and our lungs caressed.

I have an intimacy with paper but if stones were the tablet I would eagerly write with chisel and if quills were still the style I would chose that. I love handwriting and pens still. I wish computer programs would allow us to write in pends for it a beautiful exercise for whole fingers. We are just beginning to be fingertip people but I come from a legacy of bone, blood and muscular contraptions editing spontaneous symphonies of a smooth, scratchy tree note. I love it so much. We all need a table. We all need the sanctuary of penciling thoughts.

I profess my love for the written word. And I Thank Allah Almighty for Honouring me With This Gift.

Speak yer mind

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