When I entered the workplace for the first time, it’s like I’m entering
the unknown. So I tread my path carefully in
order not to shatter the
tenuous visions against the seemingly harm light of consciousness. My
time that supposed to be allotted in reading my treasured books becomes
an occasional routine coz I can’t seem to fit it in my schedule. Good
thing I can now balance my sched coz I’ve grown accustomed to it as
time goes by. In reading (or even
writing) I’ve learned that we dare
not be easily satisfied that we know what we are reading, there’s a
need to be critical for there’s a lot of bald text out there. To know
what a certain text means at every point we must know what concepts are
embodied in the text and it is also important to know the particular
process the author have in mind when he/she wrote a certain text be it
a poem, short story, even a novel.
Not to mention the trouble we come across with the language employed
since many language lack distinct single equivalent in modern language.
(And it is always a problem to determine how far we are to accept
critics adumbrations as consent with authors thought.)
Ours is a “turbulent generation” to borrow Aristotle’s word for we
can’t seem to concretize our thoughts, we are painstakingly trying to
grasp the intangible, the so called abstract from simple to complex
task that we do. Sometimes I feel like all the events of my life were
jammed that it was difficult to find anything in that chaotic clutter,
as if the contours of
reality were as faint as a tracery of my pale
ink. So I indulge myself in the art of reading and writing and somehow
it liberated me from the seemingly hazy reality of the “now.” For me
the fulfillment I derived from reading/writing makes reality stands in
clear relief and becomes somewhat meaningful. I must admit I’m a person
who continually mingle with my judgment of art, (esp. in reading and
writing) a sense of how man, the public of whom every artist aims to
respond to nature, moral bent and emotional involvement. For me,
reading/writing creates an idea of order, where, to the inartistic or
un-philosophical observer sometimes perceive life as a “whirl of action
and a chaos of emotion.” (This is not wholly true of course) That’s why
I’m struggling to write in a subtle way, write not to titillate the
readers, nor write to add up sensational effects or cater
sentimentalism of the immature. I want my writing to reside in the
matter of my subject and the mode of the written text rather than the
spectacle happening in the boob tube or in the stage; it should try to
capture the heart and mind of the reader. But sometimes things get to
tangle with contradiction and if we want worth the effort to keep going
over something (be it simple reading and writing task or yes, even life
itself!) We should strive to work it out and make sense out of it.