why read?

I am currently reading Pamuk's Other Colours where he discusses the acts of reading/ writing. In continuation of his thoughts, i am jotting down some of my reasons for reading:

I read for completeness of being, for clarity of thought, for peace of mind. I read to overcome my insecurities and fears. I read to be happy, in the moment of reading. I read to give myself some time. I read to find solace and solitude. I read out of a sense of inadequacy, to fill my mindspace with words that i hope will be my own. I read to understand my place in humanity. I read for pleasure and pain. I read to overcome boredom and drudgery. I read to be honest about life...

to call my own

The constant affliction of being "never at ease" (not restless, mind you) stems from both my partitioned selves, of being Punjabi and Bengali, residing uncomfortably within me. Neither Punjabiyat nor Sonar Bangla resonate with me. Such cultural references remains fragmented and distant in my consciousness. There is a pervading lack of rootedness and attachment in who i am. Instead there is a lingering sense of loss, of being a foreigner in one's own skin. In a certain sense, i am a cultural orphan--the freak of history. This is the blackhole of my life. I cannot undo my multicultural personhood but neither am i completely at ease with what it means. If identities are tightropes on which we delicately balance our being, then i am struggling to walk the line. So who am i? where do i belong? The tirade of questioning never ceases to confuse me. If what i identify with is purloined or borrowed, then is my insaniyat cultural theft? In that case, what a wretched fate.

sab kala

filling blank spaces with songs

dotting time with non-sequitur thoughts

living vicariously like in the movies

listening to Operator Love

sleeping on an half-empty belly

reading in-between moments

awakening to the spinning fan

surrounding silence 

there is the waiting, waiting, waiting...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1fR8u4VAcis&feature=related