A Paradox, Reminiscent of My Life

     I do not like books, and yet I find myself writing about my favorite. I can manage getting “lost” amongst the subdued stillness of my life, and do not look for it in a book. I often see it being difficult to talk about a book, as I find its entirety to be a silent experience. I do not believe a book is ever about the story, just as I believe life is not about what is happening at the moment, but rather all else that is occurring as I perceive this life “happening”; or whether I will take away a part of this said experience, or leave it forgotten, to disappear into a hopeless pit of oblivion. Both amuse me. The story of a book never attracts me much like my experience of reading it does. But the story is simple; a boy and a tree, taking too much and realizing when nothing is left, that nothing was needed. I enjoy the questionable permanence presented in a tree. I find wonder in the simplicity of a life, or story. I am amused by the wandering diversity of a life; one that can be summed down so simply into a mere few pages, in which one sees not an elaborately fictional story, nor an alluring mystery or action novel, but a simplistic perception of a life that is otherwise imperceptible. Aside from the somewhat insignificant context of an object or phenomena, I find value in the intangible aspects it may provoke. The story provokes memory of inexistence. As I encounter the book, I am presented with the past, in a form where it exists outside of life and existence, and I feel as if I am no longer here, but rather there. And passing by The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein on a library shelf, I may stop and pick it up, to flip through the pages of such a simple book; one which I have managed to complicate.