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| Magical Farm |
A book is nothing but a pile of words.
Work, work, work.
A book is useless. It makes you unhappy. It makes you wonder about
things. It makes you think. It makes you doubt.
Work, work, work.
It’s a waste of time; it’s a waste of energy. It’s contagious.
Work is good. It makes you be useful. It helps the community. You are
productive.
So, work, work, work.
Never mind the books. Never mind that thing called reading. No one does it
anymore. That is for degenerate, contentious, old-timers.
There’s no time for that today. Now everything is fast, short, just the
facts, just the facts.
But she dreamt of magical travels to wondrous places where smiles triggered
more smiles. Each time she opened a book, she dreamt of terrible destinies, of
marvelous friendships, of unsolved crimes, of horrendous places and fascinating
futures. Powerful words made anything possible. They even painted a blue cow in
the sky, covered in stars. Let them think reading was for old people. Let them
think reading was a waste of time. It wasn’t a waste of time for her. And she
didn’t mind being looked at as some kind of peculiar and anti-social creature. No,
she didn’t mind. She never felt alone in her world of an infinite pile of words.
She was happy.
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