The Joy of Rereading.

• Rereading is like coming home after a tiring, trying day to curl up by your favourite spot, doing nothing but watching a cascade of blanketed layers of rain patter down on everything that dares turn its nose up at the greying-at-the-edges clouds (old, but pregnant with purpose) as the downpour brightens everything up with a fresh coat of natural paint.
• Rereading is noticing minor details you missed before, that instantly turn into a major cause of discussion for you, with anyone who’d *just* listen.


• Rereading old favourites is like spending time with your best friends. A long break in between is acceptable – both lives shall continue, albeit with anecdotes held in anticipation of meeting again – because you spend this break with the knowledge that when it does come to an end, yet again, it’ll feel like it never happened.
• And most of all, it’s like spending time with your own past self. You’re not simply rereading a book. God no. You’re going back in time to who you were, to a past self. Who you liked and who you disliked, and what you were going through when you last read it. You find paragraphs you loved because words were the only solace you could find. You find places and settings you’ve yearned desperately to experience, because they were your only escape from the frugalities of the real world. You find people you could truly hold on to, who you knew you could always find between the now-yellowing patches of memories – who remain the same throughout the uncertainty and evanescence of those right in front of you.
• Rereading an old favourite is the closest thing we’ll have to a time machine.

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