Reading: you either love it, or you hate it, right?
I think that’s what I’ve noticed. People read, or they don’t read. There isn’t really an in-between. They don’t just read sometimes.
I, on the other hand, openly love reading. I love a lot of other things too, granted, but when I have the time, not a lot can beat the feeling of being engrossed in a fantastic book. But, why?
Buying new books:
Coming home from work…
…knowing you can read all night:
The struggle of choosing what to read next, from the endless unread books you’ve got on display:
Reading the first chapter, and thinking “I’m gunna love this…”:
Becoming best friends with the protagonist:
Then shit goes down, and they find themselves in trouble:
Worrying about what’s going to happen to them all day at work:
The feeling of relief when they don’t die:
Or pain, if they do:
Then you finish the book, it’s the last of the trilogy, and there’s a hole in your life:
The sheer and utter disappointment when the book was amazing, but the ending was absolutely crap:
The excitement of letting go, and moving on to a new book:
The endless cycle.
Okay, I’ll go read now…