Kurt was reading and I was looking for recipes. He looked up at me and said, "Like, why do we read? Isn't that weird?"
And I knew in that moment, and a million moments just like it, that he was totally meant for me.
Because, when he said that, what he meant was something like,
We're these creatures and we sit perfectly still and use our eyes to take in strings of shapes that we've determined have meaning when they're placed in a certain order. So, these shapes spell out words and they're describing something. We take these words into our brains and we can, for hours, imagine something happening, and it can be more beautiful or more disturbing or more amazing than almost anything else in the world. It can be like love. It can make us into something better.
And then, isn't it also weird that reading books means what it does to us, and then there are other human creatures who don't really care for it? They barely spend any time at all wiggling their eyes back and forth to take in the characters. Or, when they do, they just want to imagine something fun, something harmless that doesn't make them feel anything other than mildly entertained.
It so totally is weird, right? Everything is weird. We're bone robots filled with goo and we have pulley systems and electricity inside of us. We're dependent on rhythms and contractions. And we fall in love, with each other and with our children and with music and the ocean and Stephen Elliott books and novels about the shaded side of the hills of Appalachia.
It could make you go crazy, if you really understood it. If you needed to be aware of every breath you're taking.
Life is beautiful, I think.
It's important, or maybe it doesn't mean anything to anybody other than us.
Life is beautiful.