I read because it paints a picture;
Of the intellectual kind
That shakes me to consciousness
And makes me face reality.
I read because it gives me another life,
Another perspective,
Another mind,
Another sensation,
And makes it surreal.
I read because I travel
From a land of Dark Lords
To a land where Time stops still and then
To a land with magical Wardrobes
Before a land of Desolation
And a land of long Winters but
I wind back to Earth—
The unnatural ground my legs touch and
The poisonous air my nose breathes.
The destructive sound my ears hear and
The chaos my eyes see.
But, I still read what you write
Because it tells me a story
Describes another human
And a powerful emotion
Which strikes that chord
Not making me feel lonely,
Anymore.
It's funny how I read and write, both.
I am the story-teller and
I am the listener.
I am the God and
I am the one who he creates.
I am the heat in the day and
I am the cold in the night.
I am you and
I am me.
But,
Aren't we all the same
If we, both, read and write?
Like we inhale and exhale?
Or like we stay wide awake or in a deep slumber?
Or like we create and destruct?
Or like we live and perish?
Then, why are we different?
But, that is how I read
and this is how I write.
Like, this is how you read.
Now, tell me, how you write.
In response to a poem titled "so I'll tell you why I write." by an anonymous writer.
