For days you have something you look forward to. Something to quickly flip open the moment you have a spare second, or even if there isn't a spare second, just a quick glance to check out the ensuing situation that follows. And if it's a really good book, you start to live and breathe the lives of the characters. You think about your own and you think about them. Even when you're waiting for the traffic light to turn green.. you wonder about them right then in your book.
You wonder about life. Their lives. Yours. You wonder about love, about death. About friendship, about family. You wonder about Sanity, about Normalcy. You wonder about everything you thought that was real and question their validity.
For days you have a companion. And lucky for me, because of late I've been missing one, my literary companion has been a refuge.
And so on this cool sunday afternoon, when my stories have ended, I shed a tear for the lost protagonist and lie in complete silence as I finally lay the cover to rest. I'm sad for I'm missing many things. Missing not knowing. Missing a confidante. Missing anticipation. Missing novelty.
A good book is hard to come by. One that you relate to.
And when it's done, you're not sure what to hold in your hands or grab before you leave the house anymore.
I can't turn to Grishams or Christies, Coelhos or Wildes.
Again, a good book. What a pain in the ass. It really screws everything up.
It's all up to Jacqueline now. So drama. So emo. Bloody hell.
You wonder about life. Their lives. Yours. You wonder about love, about death. About friendship, about family. You wonder about Sanity, about Normalcy. You wonder about everything you thought that was real and question their validity.
For days you have a companion. And lucky for me, because of late I've been missing one, my literary companion has been a refuge.
And so on this cool sunday afternoon, when my stories have ended, I shed a tear for the lost protagonist and lie in complete silence as I finally lay the cover to rest. I'm sad for I'm missing many things. Missing not knowing. Missing a confidante. Missing anticipation. Missing novelty.
A good book is hard to come by. One that you relate to.
And when it's done, you're not sure what to hold in your hands or grab before you leave the house anymore.
I can't turn to Grishams or Christies, Coelhos or Wildes.
Again, a good book. What a pain in the ass. It really screws everything up.
It's all up to Jacqueline now. So drama. So emo. Bloody hell.
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