It was a few hours after I finished reading Haruki Murakami's Firefly, that an actual firefly (believe me, I don't have the faintest idea how it managed to enter my close-shut room) did really strolling in the air in front of me before perching for a slight moment on the brink of my laptop screen. I recognized it for the blinking dim-lighted neon on its back and the intervals of the light kinda resembled an all-nighter's struggling eyes, which also indicates a type of person I am, particularly right in the situation I was having at the moment. I was not in the middle of an incomplete assignment nor getting some unfinished great movies to watch, but rather, endeavoring myself on structuring the perfect words for a sentence, which in turn, I hope to make up into blocks of written evidence for my future self to look upon.
I guess the more I read, the urgency to write something began to accumulate even more in a strangest manner. I would often tried to depict a lesson experienced in some particular days but as soon as I engaged into the text cursor on the top left of a new draft blog post, nothing came out in form of words, but instead, I would repeatedly realized that the floating ideas was just like describing the taste of a food, you can only imagine them but somehow it's hard to put the perfect instances unless the person who read the description really did took a bite of it.
Perhaps that's why I always thought that everyone is an 'imaginary' author, with stories of a lifetime to tell but only a few who has the right skill of translating them into a language of words, became an authentic one. For others, retaining the ideas while travelling across the sea of words in the search for personal quintessential arrangements was a tedious effort since like everyone else, as our curiosity about abnormal things in our life (in this case, a distinct idea came up in mind) runs it's course, our attention to it will faded away with time.
However, just because we couldn't express our thought, doesn't mean we should stop enjoying the aesthetics of reading. Opening to read a new book is like travelling somewhere far. It's long, tiring and we are not even know what will happen next. We just merely taking a chance by sometimes following recommendations from others who already went there and enjoyed the experiences themselves (book reviews) or simply taking risk on our own based on intuition. Nevertheless, either the journey was good or bad, at least by the time we reached the end of the road (the last sentence), we'd added up another experiences, a kind of achievement, for at least we finished something that we'd started.
And that my friend, would probably be my answer to the reason why some people love to read but maybe will not become a person who would produce a quote or a thought-provoking lines. These people simply wish to retreat in their solitary and quiet zone, building their own megalopolis of imagination after a long day of tiresome real life flounder.
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