For the love of books
Books are wonderful friends waiting to be discovered, cherished, and lovingly held. Granted, I do not read the classics nor can I successfully hold up an intelligent (boring) discussion or analysis because, although I’ve been blessed in many ways, I do have problems with bad memory and making sense of the jumbled thoughts in my head vying to be let loose. I stumble over my words, feeling as if they are choking me, piling up at the back of my throat and any sort of coherent thread I was weaving unravels, leaving me with a gaping mouth and a blank mind. That's one of my numerous pet peeves. It is the reason a frozen smile finds its way to my lips whenever I hear the dreaded words “What are you reading”. I hurriedly mumble my answer, annoyed at the interruption, and shove my head back to the book, hoping that they get the hint and move on.
Its crazy, but whenever I talk about a book that I love, I find that it is not as interesting as I initially thought. It loses some of its brilliance and becomes just like another piece of engraved wood. Usually because whenever I go into a discussion I tend have a totally different idea than everyone else. Probably have some sort of freaky, unnatural attachment towards them. I guess that's why I have always felt comfortable and a sense of belonging in any library I came across. Just passing through the doors, taking a big breath, and inhaling the dizzy fragrance of old paper and smudged ink has the power to calm me. A place of refuge. Some people find escape in food, others in shopping sprees while still others prefer social gatherings. For me, its quite simple. A book. Doesn't matter what it is just as long as its not academic *shivers*. Mystery, horror, romance, non-fiction, fantasy. I do not discriminate. They all have value and should be appreciated as such.
Happiness is what you make of it. And for me, nothing beats curling up with a good book, a cup of steaming tea, a few drops of Hershey kisses, hair loose, one leg on top of the arm of a couch and the other resting on a coffee table, while Sarah McLanchlan plays softly in the background.
Sometimes, one finds the simplest things in life make it interesting and enjoyable. Its cheaper than drugs too.
Its crazy, but whenever I talk about a book that I love, I find that it is not as interesting as I initially thought. It loses some of its brilliance and becomes just like another piece of engraved wood. Usually because whenever I go into a discussion I tend have a totally different idea than everyone else. Probably have some sort of freaky, unnatural attachment towards them. I guess that's why I have always felt comfortable and a sense of belonging in any library I came across. Just passing through the doors, taking a big breath, and inhaling the dizzy fragrance of old paper and smudged ink has the power to calm me. A place of refuge. Some people find escape in food, others in shopping sprees while still others prefer social gatherings. For me, its quite simple. A book. Doesn't matter what it is just as long as its not academic *shivers*. Mystery, horror, romance, non-fiction, fantasy. I do not discriminate. They all have value and should be appreciated as such.
Happiness is what you make of it. And for me, nothing beats curling up with a good book, a cup of steaming tea, a few drops of Hershey kisses, hair loose, one leg on top of the arm of a couch and the other resting on a coffee table, while Sarah McLanchlan plays softly in the background.
Sometimes, one finds the simplest things in life make it interesting and enjoyable. Its cheaper than drugs too.
posted by Lonesome Dreamer @ 3:24 p.m.
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
Subscribe to Post Comments [Atom]
<< Home