I have never been a book reader. I guess I was too hyper in my growing-up years to sit down and read a book. I would sit down to read, flipping through the pages with the intention of immersing myself in the story, but soon my mind would start to wander, darting off to thoughts about my friends, games I wanted to play, and the countless adventures waiting for me outside. It was as if the words on the page were mere background noise, and although I would be physically reading, my thoughts were elsewhere, imagining scenarios far more exciting than the one right in front of me. This struggle made it challenging for me to dive into narratives, leaving me with a nagging feeling that perhaps I was missing out on something special, an entire world that captivated others while I remained outside, restless and distracted.
My brother was and still is an avid reader, known for his insatiable curiosity and love for literature. I don’t know how many thousands of books he has read, as his shelves overflow with titles ranging from classic novels to contemporary non-fiction. Every time I visit him, I am amazed at the stacks of books he has accumulated over the years, each one carrying its own unique story and insights. I am beginning to wonder if he received the reading genes that I should have received, as I find it challenging to immerse myself in books the way he does. Perhaps there is something in his nature that drives him to explore different worlds through the pages, while I often struggle to focus for even short bursts of time. It’s a mystery to me how he manages to absorb so much knowledge and enjoyment from reading, whereas my attempts often feel like fleeting moments rather than an enduring passion.
TomT2.0 