There was once a man who went to the book store for self-guided therapy. He made a deal with the store owner to buy a book during every session in exchange for privacy. The man was in his forties, and the store owner assumed that he was having a mid-life crisis.
The man read horror books to scream. He read comedy to laugh. He read the romances to cry. He read the children’s books to connect with the boy inside him. He read the classics to find truth and meaning. He read the mysteries to solve the cases of his heart. He read science fiction to travel to his past and imagine his future. He read and read and bought book after book.
After weeks of these sessions, the man decided to end them, believing himself to be cured. “Cured of what?” the store owner asked. “An empty bookshelf,” the man said.