Its all a matter of time

My pet disillusion regarding modern man or woman is the tragic inability to hold their attention on any issue for other than a short space of time. A lack of attention of time and effort. How often I hear the complaint, "I haven't the time".

Time is precious of course. The time we spent with our first girlfriend was like attending a university course trying to understand the mood swings, assimilating the signals, promoting our self. All these quirks of human behaviour as we  assembled a bio pic which we could roll out and replay in our mind when things became inevitably tricky.
That basic assembly of knowledge was a time consuming issue but we were happy to wait hours to see the smile on her face, even if she had kept us waiting for an hour or more.
Now, to be asked to set aside 5 minutes and read an article (even a blog) is an anathema to many. Time in their lives is too precious to spend reading something, 'for god's sake'!

We're busy doing nothing
Working the whole day through
Trying to find lots of things not to do.
We're busy going nowhere
Isn't it just a crime
We'd like to be unhappy, but
We never do have the time.

When "I" read, I am transported by the text. The place, the idea, my mind runs with the narrative and often intercedes with it to bring my own experience to bare. Likewise what I read translates into problem solving in my own world which is made richer by the experiences of others. I would go so far as to say the world would be terrifying if I faced it on my own but the opinions of others, on subjects which might be worrying me now, is like a comfort blanket to a child. 

We are but children sampling each new and old experience with eyes that might see the bogeyman everywhere if it were not for the positive testimony of countless books.
To reach out and take down a book and open it on the page you had last closed, it is like renewing a conversation with an old friend. You remember the mental moment when the connection was broken and is now its rejoined. The mind re-opens the dialogue as if nothing had changed, no time had elapsed and you set off once again down the same path, the writers path but one on which you carry your own baggage, your own assumptions.
And so I say to the time conscious non reader, think again how devoid of substance our lives are without the extension to others for their opinion. Think how trivial our lives can be without being able to place it in some sort of context, the sort of context a good book can bring.