A life spent reading books

Italian version here.

My mind can hardly work, and this is a necessary foreword, because this post is going to be short and not particularly elaborated. Quite silly, rather. The reason why my mind can’t work is that I hardly slept tonight; sleep seems to be a problem for aliens on Earth. Unnatural environment, I suppose.

Either way, I want to report an extremely beautiful thing happened to me today, because I think it’s worth sharing. I was packing books together at the bookshop – the humans of the bookshop evidently don’t believe I’m going to kill them with my piercings, and I’m very grateful for that – and I was meanwhile talking to my colleague as well as supervisor about what we like to do in our life and so on. Since we work in a bookshop, it’s natural that we talk frequently about books. I was telling him about what I like to read, what I have written and I finally came to say that I’ve written a novel. Surprise and questions from my colleague. After that it’s my turn:
«Well, do you like to write too? What have you written?»
«I wrote when I was younger, but that’s not what I’m going to do in my life. In my life, I’m going to read.»

Isn’t it amazing? He has a good position in a bookshop, he could think about making money, earn more and more, advance in his job. And he tells me that in his life he wants to read. I had already noticed that he is a very nice and kind human, maybe one of those special humans, but this was extremely warming for me. And even more, he is my supervisor; he is at a higher level than me in the bookshop; he could have told me about career and money. But no, he wants to read. He wants to do what he likes to do, he wants to spend his hours sat in a couch, in a chair, lying on a bed or on a lawn, and just read. Page after page, story after story, knowledge after knowledge. A sparkle of light in an otherwise tired day.
I rejoice deeply when I meet a human that in his life seeks true happiness. True happiness which is formed by little things; big things come later, if they will ever come, but nevertheless they will be constructed by all those little things accumulated one over the other. I don’t know if I will ever publish my book, but for some months I had the pleasure of writing it. This is what matters. Of course I’ll be happy if I manage to publish it, but what makes me really happy is having written it. Things would be so much better if humans dedicated themselves to what brings life to them instead of to what brings them money, career, success. Now I’m being grandiloquent, but seriously, I mean it. I stopped understanding this grotesque success race; and to think that once I believed in it as well. No wait a second, I was awfully unhappy: I didn’t actually believe in it; I was pretending to, even with myself. I’m not saying to not do things, to not do them well, to just lay down and let everything go, no; I myself always try to give my best in anything I do. But I see no point in being mean with others while you do it, and only to obtain something, money, which has not a proper value. I believe in working to have food, a house, books, a computer, clothes. Also pencils, or a football ball, or that new plant that you really really want in your garden. I don’t believe in working to buy the most powerful car not because you like cars but just because it’s the biggest and the strongest, the last model of everything, such an amount of stuff that you won’t even use the half of it.

Humans should just want to be happy. What else should they do? What else should every living creature do? I can’t see any other purpose in my life than the one of being happy, whatever it means to me. And I don’t believe money and prevarication can buy happiness. OK, maybe for a psychopath, but psychopaths are not such a good population sample; there are pretty few of them around, as far as I know (in compensation there are tons of awful humans, who manage to be awful without being psychopaths).
I just want to be happy. I just want to have a nice working environment, where I feel welcome and appreciated. Where I can friendly chat with my colleague while we pack books. Where I can hear him saying that in his life he wants to read.

Advertisements

One thought on “A life spent reading books

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s