the book
//-thebook,(mis)judged by the cover-//
do not ever judge a book by the cover, they say. most, or perhaps all of the time i'll be willingly aprove to comply to that argument, that books are not defined just by the covers. well here i say, this book cover amaze me. since the first time i set the book free from the barred imprisoning shelf, and each-and every time i lay my eyes on the book, my own selfgrip failed to function, all logics ceased to exist, breatheless i'll be, how i know i'd never be the same, there, there, dare i say it. all the appearances that would stimulate and trigger all symptoms that cause by hormonal reactions -balance and imbalanced at the same time. the cover smoothness, must be designed by the divine designer one while smiling, and if you put enough attention to the every detail which ilustrates, the iluminations that surrounds, and most of all the impeccable near flawless curves, then it would be an undoubtful oddness if you disagree with me. yes, off course you may, i wouldn't mind if you choose to disagree with me on the technical details, but i believe that there is a universally wonderfully level of agreement that we all have to say and put an end of the disagreement, in one single lonely word: beautiful, period.
how shallow would one be if one insist to say that one could helplessly give in to the attraction of a book cover, absurd and superficial one, then i would not ever mind labelled, judged, as a shallow one. so be it. let it be.
i've tries, believe me i've tried, close my eyes or to distract these silly eyessight of mine to other books, or to other significantly matter things. but even with closed eyes, the mind would resist not to imagine. as einstein wisely once says:
...imagination is more important than knowledge. for knowledge is limited to all we now know and understand, while imagination embraces the entire world, and all there ever will be to know and understand...
but even there are many other significant matter that should be distractful to the eyes & mind of mine, all the memories of all that colors of the book cover have would dazzle and sometimes,-manytimes, rainbowing on my my mind, and shadows halucinate found on every other corner of all the places. everything you can imagine is real, picasso said once.
enough said, the book taken, by me, myself and i.
everywhere is the place i carry the book, mostly. anywhere is how i always wants to carry the book, hopefully. but times always have a cheatwise trick to make me not able to continously bring and carry my possesion, even if all the possible way i've tried, even if after all the willingness drained out of me. and those times, away from this precious possesion of mine, are dreadful, terrible, bored, to passed.
i knew, i know, the majority of the happenings we experienced resulted in dissapointment when abundant euphoriastic beginnings were occured, especially with superficial shallow start of impressions. i am awared of that. but not consecutively anticipated, not always, as human as myself can be. but i did anticipate that perhaps dissapointment inevitable after the amazement by the cover.
comes to me the initial next moment, the afterward. when i finally find the time, find the place, find the right moment, find the perfect situation set, find the precious opportunity, to open the book and eagerly looks whats inside, and all the anticipation misprevail. the expectation of dissapointment is refuse to withstand. and the deeper i fall to surprises, my own selfgrip failed to function, all logics ceased to exist, breatheless i'll be, how i know i'd never be the same, there, there, dare i say it.
as i softly lay my finger on each part of the contents, slowly, what i find inside is more than i can bear. each letters, each words, each and every sentences grasp me, succumbed to a gravity with no land existed to stand, deeper and deeper. as i softly turn the pages, one by one, revealing what used to be riddled behind those rippled papers, reading the unreaden. as i enthusiastically digging and peeling, layer by layer, the more i found out inside the more curiousity grab me and ended up having myself wanting more, the reading. as i excitely exploring, chapter by chapter, imaginations stimulated, knowledge delighted. as i helplessly keep reading, the book reads me back, as if like the book knows all the wants and needs of the reader: me, myself, and i. all provided, all the dramaturgies, all the misteries -solve yet unsolved-, all the comedies, all the tragedies, all kind of surprise -pleasant or unpleasant-, all kind of endings -expected yet unexpected, happy or sourly sad-, almost all the mixed emotions available and known to men profoundly near impossible not to be found.
once i finish, the needs to re-read again is a sudden impulse. sometimes i sucessfully deliberately choose not to finish, paused -stopped on a certain chapters or choosen pages, only to inhales and to spice up the tingles longing feeling so after the pause the reading would have different nuances, and especially: forecasting for another unique experience. but many times the effort to constraint myself to not too deeply pulled until the last chapter last pages last words last letters, failed. but yet exhales, widely.
sometimes i read fast, concerns to a limited time availabe. manytimes i read slowly, my favouritte way of reading, feel the breeze of all stories flow comes out from the book, slowly. started by carressing from the curves of the cover, peeling pages eventually, and then nothing even matters, nothing even matters.
manytimes i read in the morning, right after i wake up, the book wake me up actually. so after a good sleep night, i will have sufficient focus and energy to do it more thouroughly. sometimes i read on a lunch time, the same time when the school break, sometimes a little bit before sometimes a little bit after. as long as the occasion and opportunity provide, then i read. but many times, the usual casual yet subtle delicate delight delicious times, is at night. right before the slumber, after all the grudge and the hectic of days left behind, after covered by the blanket and the pillows at the perfect positions, and then quite is the night before the reading happens, and quite is the night after the reading happens, what was in between is only for me and the book to knows, so be it, let it be, let it happens. and a deep sleep pleasantly afterward, and a smile rose up at the morning after. it is not a rare events, the reading happens at all times: morning, brunch times, lunch times, afternoon tea times, prime tv times, before slumber times, at slumber times. as long as the resources enough, it will happens.
sometimes i read in the coach, sofa. sometimes while soaking and soothing myself on a bubblefull bathtub. there was one time the reading happens inside a phone booth, while raining, heavy ones. sometimes in the car, front seat when the occurence possible, but occasionally on the backseat while having a peaceful quite unbothered park times. one time in the park bench, at the moments when the sun preparing himself to allow the moon to take it's part. another time the reading happens only under the soft light of a full moon above. i wonder how will it be possible to read while showering, do not know how but intrigued to try.
indeed i must confess, i found deepness on the book, and naturally the book reveal my deepness. both conscious and subconscious of mine, helplessly prevent the book to reads me back. i hate to love the book initiated by the cover, i hated how it happens, i hated it still. but it happens, and it happens still.
should i just surrender myself to the book?
dearest, let me read your book, let me read you
do not ever judge a book by the cover, they say. most, or perhaps all of the time i'll be willingly aprove to comply to that argument, that books are not defined just by the covers. well here i say, this book cover amaze me. since the first time i set the book free from the barred imprisoning shelf, and each-and every time i lay my eyes on the book, my own selfgrip failed to function, all logics ceased to exist, breatheless i'll be, how i know i'd never be the same, there, there, dare i say it. all the appearances that would stimulate and trigger all symptoms that cause by hormonal reactions -balance and imbalanced at the same time. the cover smoothness, must be designed by the divine designer one while smiling, and if you put enough attention to the every detail which ilustrates, the iluminations that surrounds, and most of all the impeccable near flawless curves, then it would be an undoubtful oddness if you disagree with me. yes, off course you may, i wouldn't mind if you choose to disagree with me on the technical details, but i believe that there is a universally wonderfully level of agreement that we all have to say and put an end of the disagreement, in one single lonely word: beautiful, period.
how shallow would one be if one insist to say that one could helplessly give in to the attraction of a book cover, absurd and superficial one, then i would not ever mind labelled, judged, as a shallow one. so be it. let it be.
i've tries, believe me i've tried, close my eyes or to distract these silly eyessight of mine to other books, or to other significantly matter things. but even with closed eyes, the mind would resist not to imagine. as einstein wisely once says:
...imagination is more important than knowledge. for knowledge is limited to all we now know and understand, while imagination embraces the entire world, and all there ever will be to know and understand...
but even there are many other significant matter that should be distractful to the eyes & mind of mine, all the memories of all that colors of the book cover have would dazzle and sometimes,-manytimes, rainbowing on my my mind, and shadows halucinate found on every other corner of all the places. everything you can imagine is real, picasso said once.
enough said, the book taken, by me, myself and i.
everywhere is the place i carry the book, mostly. anywhere is how i always wants to carry the book, hopefully. but times always have a cheatwise trick to make me not able to continously bring and carry my possesion, even if all the possible way i've tried, even if after all the willingness drained out of me. and those times, away from this precious possesion of mine, are dreadful, terrible, bored, to passed.
i knew, i know, the majority of the happenings we experienced resulted in dissapointment when abundant euphoriastic beginnings were occured, especially with superficial shallow start of impressions. i am awared of that. but not consecutively anticipated, not always, as human as myself can be. but i did anticipate that perhaps dissapointment inevitable after the amazement by the cover.
comes to me the initial next moment, the afterward. when i finally find the time, find the place, find the right moment, find the perfect situation set, find the precious opportunity, to open the book and eagerly looks whats inside, and all the anticipation misprevail. the expectation of dissapointment is refuse to withstand. and the deeper i fall to surprises, my own selfgrip failed to function, all logics ceased to exist, breatheless i'll be, how i know i'd never be the same, there, there, dare i say it.
as i softly lay my finger on each part of the contents, slowly, what i find inside is more than i can bear. each letters, each words, each and every sentences grasp me, succumbed to a gravity with no land existed to stand, deeper and deeper. as i softly turn the pages, one by one, revealing what used to be riddled behind those rippled papers, reading the unreaden. as i enthusiastically digging and peeling, layer by layer, the more i found out inside the more curiousity grab me and ended up having myself wanting more, the reading. as i excitely exploring, chapter by chapter, imaginations stimulated, knowledge delighted. as i helplessly keep reading, the book reads me back, as if like the book knows all the wants and needs of the reader: me, myself, and i. all provided, all the dramaturgies, all the misteries -solve yet unsolved-, all the comedies, all the tragedies, all kind of surprise -pleasant or unpleasant-, all kind of endings -expected yet unexpected, happy or sourly sad-, almost all the mixed emotions available and known to men profoundly near impossible not to be found.
once i finish, the needs to re-read again is a sudden impulse. sometimes i sucessfully deliberately choose not to finish, paused -stopped on a certain chapters or choosen pages, only to inhales and to spice up the tingles longing feeling so after the pause the reading would have different nuances, and especially: forecasting for another unique experience. but many times the effort to constraint myself to not too deeply pulled until the last chapter last pages last words last letters, failed. but yet exhales, widely.
sometimes i read fast, concerns to a limited time availabe. manytimes i read slowly, my favouritte way of reading, feel the breeze of all stories flow comes out from the book, slowly. started by carressing from the curves of the cover, peeling pages eventually, and then nothing even matters, nothing even matters.
manytimes i read in the morning, right after i wake up, the book wake me up actually. so after a good sleep night, i will have sufficient focus and energy to do it more thouroughly. sometimes i read on a lunch time, the same time when the school break, sometimes a little bit before sometimes a little bit after. as long as the occasion and opportunity provide, then i read. but many times, the usual casual yet subtle delicate delight delicious times, is at night. right before the slumber, after all the grudge and the hectic of days left behind, after covered by the blanket and the pillows at the perfect positions, and then quite is the night before the reading happens, and quite is the night after the reading happens, what was in between is only for me and the book to knows, so be it, let it be, let it happens. and a deep sleep pleasantly afterward, and a smile rose up at the morning after. it is not a rare events, the reading happens at all times: morning, brunch times, lunch times, afternoon tea times, prime tv times, before slumber times, at slumber times. as long as the resources enough, it will happens.
sometimes i read in the coach, sofa. sometimes while soaking and soothing myself on a bubblefull bathtub. there was one time the reading happens inside a phone booth, while raining, heavy ones. sometimes in the car, front seat when the occurence possible, but occasionally on the backseat while having a peaceful quite unbothered park times. one time in the park bench, at the moments when the sun preparing himself to allow the moon to take it's part. another time the reading happens only under the soft light of a full moon above. i wonder how will it be possible to read while showering, do not know how but intrigued to try.
indeed i must confess, i found deepness on the book, and naturally the book reveal my deepness. both conscious and subconscious of mine, helplessly prevent the book to reads me back. i hate to love the book initiated by the cover, i hated how it happens, i hated it still. but it happens, and it happens still.
should i just surrender myself to the book?
dearest, let me read your book, let me read you
Agustus 2010.
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