If left alone, untouched and unanalyzed, life is a seemingly infinite continuous blur. Maybe that is the way it should be, because to measure it would be to come to grips with the shocking reality of its finiteness. Holding the thought in mind, walking into a bookstore could be a frustrating experience, as you become painfully aware that you would never, ever, come to know but a tiny fraction of what is available. I read at an average speed, meaning that one year translates into no more than the completion of one hundred books. In fact, if I could manage to finish one hundred books in a year, I consider that no small feat. What usually happens is I would gather up the steam to "speed read" for a week, and then lose it all and procrasticate in the following two weeks. But even if one year means finishing one hundred books, and assuming I shall live to a ripe age, meaning giving myself about 60 years for reading, my entire lifespan, not counting the first 30 years of absurdity, would translate into roughly 5000 to 6000 books. I suppose 5000 books is more than enough to make (or break) a single human being. It throws into sharp relief what each passing day really means, time in a very tangible sense.
But the picture is not all dismal. I suppose when you are anxiously waiting for the return of a loved one from a trip in distant land, you could tell yourself with a bit of relish that "i will see him/her three books later" or "in four more books, she will be back home". And as you wait, fill the passing days with words, with passages, with the joy, anxiety and longings of others, and know that at the end of their journeys, yours will be more refreshed and complete.
