Are one hundred years enough to read all that you want to read? My mind says a sharp NO. Time doesn’t define how much you read, it just defines how well you read and who you become while you read. For me, I’m either living a million stories, or marveling at the light of reading shining in my eyes. I like to think of reading as sunshine. My sunshine. And, I fail to put in words how books make me feel. How seen. How complete. How more of me. How limitless. How little and yet how bigger than I actually am.

A glance at them and I find spaces weaving within me. Spaces of comfort, of peace, of uncertainty, of stories, of tears, of smiles, of high-fives, of pats on the shoulder. As a reader, I feel like confessing, one hundred years won’t suffice for the amount of good there is in the books. The way they curl up beside me, with their spines so deep, their stories deeper.

With the hope of reading and sometimes re-reading books, I pick this book up today. Because, one hundred years of solitude isn’t enough to hold the books the way they deserve to be held. Books become what you want them to be. They are silently waiting for you to hold them and lend them an ear. It’s a matter of “waking up their souls”. Are you doing your bit after buying them? 

When we pick a book, we open our hearts a little, let the breeze flutter its wings, wipe off the crumbs of words we never said, and settle down, inviting new words, with each page we turn.

For me, the experience of reading is that of acceptance. When I open a book, I tell myself, there is something new to welcome in my heart. It could be a word, a feeling, a thought, or the whole story.

Reading this book, like eating spoonfuls of a new meal, felt odd first. Odd, because of the names. It’s like eating a dish with its name being something you’re yet to befriend. But, picking pace, reading pages, the names feel like a blur and the story flowing. Telling me something I have missed. Or would like to lend an ear to.

This is what books seem to me, some flowing right from the page one. Some seeking my patience to look beyond the names. And, that’s the joy, the gift of reading. Weaving space. And, I love to think of reading as weaving of a space. A beautiful space. A personal yet universal space. A room for me. A room for all. A pleasant whiff for one and all. 💜

Having said that, I’m back to solitude with one hundred years of solitude.

A day back, a moment back, a line here and there tying knots with time, that’s how books wade through time. Time is so gracefully captured in books, it’s as if we live time twice. Or, uh, a hundred times? A hundred lives, that’s how many readers live, don’t they? But, I feel I live infinite characters. At times being a character fond of books, other times making way through life like a character of books.

A hundred years of solitude, that’s what books capture, in solitude. A hundred years of stories, that’s what books treasure. A hundred years of time, that’s what books re-live. A hundred years of people, that’s who we live to be. A hundred years of solitude, that’s what books are capable of bearing. 💛

I’m still reading One hundred years of solitude. A piece of story is glancing in front of my eyes. Sweeping my reality. Taking me back, way back. Different characters. Different emotions. And, I’m taking my time. Books demand time. Time demands some more time. Going back isn’t easy, neither is coming back. Pause. 💜