Reading, if you think about it, is a strange human activity. An endeavour to experience something that is not really happening to us, at least not at that moment. Or to get to know a mind of another. It is an action to learn, to immerse, to feel, to get lost and to fantasise.
But to an outsider, to the non-human, it is an activity and process so strange that is hard to accurately describe.
It may seem at the moment of reading a book from the outside, if we are willing to distance ourselves, that a fairly hairless animal, a monkey if you will, is staring at a dead piece of a tree dotted with strange symbols that are applied with a substance made from other long dead things, and then getting high on these symbols.
This is how reading could seem like from the outside, we are imagining things written on a piece of paper, a dead piece of wood, while we fantasise and see things with our mind that are not really there. We can travel distances and live multiple different lives, observing the cosmos of endless possibilities with our creative human mind. But it is nothing more than hallucinating by getting high on a piece of paper dotted with strange symbols that make no sense to anything outside the human observer.
