Not so long ago, my fella & I were entertaining our close friends over dinner. As the story goes, one of our oldest friends, lets name him Azrul, asked for permission to perform his obligatory margrib prayer. Since the boy colonizes the living and dining room with his stuff (read: toys without substance) I brought Azrul to the library, where stillness usually reins over the sound of television sets.
Here goes the conversation after that:
“Did you read all of these books?” Azrul started asking, curiosity stamped all over his eyes.
“What’s the scale? 70% of it?” He wasn’t going to let me off the hook easily.
“Slightly more, probably 95% of it.”
“Did you know that almost all of the authors here are dead?” He pursued his inquisitiveness relentlessly.
“That’s not true, Samad Said is still alive. So does Harper Lee,” I corrected his stand, “besides, they don’t really die, they still talk to me sometimes.
“I worry about you, really, I do. They have medical specialist for the likes of you.” Azrul sniggered before he started laughing.
“What? You want to send me to some crazy asylums because I read?”
“No, not because you read. Reading is good. It’s your obsession with it that’s not healthy, you know?”
Oh, shut it Mr. I-Know-It-All!
“You need to go out more. Smell the grass, live your life. Don’t get hooked with all these dead loonies.” He added while looking like Plato’s ghost, talking about life. At this point, I was quite ready to delete his name from our expected guest list.
On an afterthought, is it true that obsession on any platform is not healthy? I don’t know, you tell me.