I’m ashamed to admit it, mostly because I’m a writer, but I forgot how to read books. I noticed it about a year ago – I kept on buying interesting looking books, but I wasn’t able to finish a god damn one of them. This is embarrassing. I realized: I’ve forgotten how to do this. My brain can’t complete the task. Reading an entire book, start to finish, is daunting.
I had grown accustomed to scrolling through the news feed and glossing over headlines and photo captions. Entire paragraphs? Occasionally. But more than twenty pages at a time? Oh, fuck no.
So I set out to accomplish a task, and I did it! I recently reread my favorite Camus book The Fall, and, oh, man, talk about revisiting the book that made me into the asshole I am today. There was something thrilling about rereading the words that made me realize that society is a sham and morality is subjective. The first time I read it – what a visceral experience. The second time – there was comfort in the chaos of those underhanded ideas. I remembered why am I the person I am today.
I revel in the beauty of ideas. The ability to corrupt. To break open fresh minds and pour a splendid yet splenetic type of poison into them. I can remember, now, why I want to wrap my hand around the throat of society and watch it suffer in silence as it slowly asphyxiates. Revelation, in its darkest form, is its own kind of ecstasy. Decimation is elevation, and I am ready to burn my way into heaven.
Won’t you come with me?