You Know Nothin’

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This afternoon I finished reading one of the most confusing pieces of writings I have ever come across, Alex Abraham’s book Zubeyda. The other day, I was reading it at this place and I guess I was making a lot of funny faces unintentionally while reading and scoffing that the kids sitting beside me asked me if I was feeling sick. I was a little bit. Alex is a good writer really, I mean I really liked a few stories in that book but there were also a few ideas in the book I couldn’t swallow. We are all entitled to our own thoughts and ideas so I can’t really call him out on anything. He’s allowed to think a certain way and so is everyone else but as I put the book down something occurred to me.

I often get very annoyed when people tell me they don’t like to read. I go out of my way to convince these people that they just need to find the right book to capture their heart and they will like reading in no time. I have always noticed how certain people keep telling other certain people that reading makes one whole. It is common belief that reading is the basis to wisdom. It used to be the fear of God, or knowing the fact that one knows nothing. But no, nowadays ask anyone what the enemy of ignorance is and they will tell you, it is reading.

I love to read. It’s my safe heaven. You can drop me in hell with a book and I will be alright. I also love to write. I’m not as well read as I would like to be. I haven’t experienced a lot of the things life has to offer to make me a master of anything but I don’t hold back when I write all this crap like my opinion should matter. I say thank you when people compliment me for it but then I go and think, what the hell do I know?

I have spent half my life preaching how reading is basically a sacred act when I myself am an insecure writer.

In this century of freedom and opportunity, you can be anything. An astronaut, an opera singer, an engineer, Kim Kardashian, a doctor…. a writer.  So if inexperienced little girls like myself can become writers just by scribbling down their thoughts, what the hell makes writing a basis of wisdom? Especially if the reader isn’t capable of deciphering which is good and right and which isn’t?

Good writing is deceiving. Great pieces of writings have passed through our lives making us think but how do we root out the insane ones from the good ones like of course there’s a place called Hogwarts and a time machine was made by Nicola Tesla so he successfully escaped the Titanic in it propelling himself and a woman called Mimi two years into the future right before it hit that ice berg and Sherlock Holmes existed but how do we separate these real ones from the false ones like sparkly vampires and talking lions and such?

I don’t know that I can tell anyone to read anything anymore.

P.S. If you didn’t immediately think of Jon Snow at the sight of the title please kindly kill yourself.

 

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