The Reader’s Disease
Books try— to make whole a fragment, a story condensed into one drop of life. Ink stains on dead paper— how long before they fade? The writer dies. But not the spark. Not the illusion of knowing. Certification—required. As if truth needs approval. All life’s philosophies locked away in dusty shelves. Dark corners of libraries exhale the smell of forgotten ink. Pages—yellowed like brittle bones, turn classical with a sigh. When the ink blurs, do ideals breathe again? Are stories—of things, of people— released into the void? And if the writer is left behind, does civilization suffer at all? Is there anything left to truly learn? Humans today barely face themselves. What you buried— you never asked to know. What lay beneath your damp heart? What urge took you to the ocean floor? Can a writer survive here, in this machine-fed archive? Unlikely. In the scrapyard of human minds— resentment curdles, ego preens, envy f...