I have always loved books.Reading them,touching them,flipping through
the pages, smelling them, and re-reading them. I do not know why I
loved books so much.People generally have this wrong assumption,that
whoever reading books is educational or intelligent or smart. Well, I do
not think so. Books are fictional, they are not real.
I have always known this and again I have always loved them, but now I
begin to dislike them.It’s not that I do not read anymore, I still do. I
did one minute ago..but one more time I convinced myself that they may
be a bit waste of my time. I am mad at myself, mad for loving something
which is not real.I could be spending my time with
other activities such as meeting people or running,or whatever else it
is. But I chose (if there was a choice) to love reading books,to spend
time holding books. Maybe because they are ‘safe’, they will not lie to
you, because everything written in them is a lie you already know. They
will not judge you or question yourself and your actions (not in most of
the cases). And yet they are the safest option for me to love. Why I do
not love people as much as I love books? Why instead of caring about
someone’s ficitional unreal life, I actually start to live a
bit more my own life? Books are great at suppressing emotions,escaping
thoughts and fighting unsuccessfully depressive moments, but books are
not good at making me believe that I actually have real experiences and everything-real-else.
Why am I that stupid?
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