You know why do I yearn for more books? Why do I always seem to overspend on them? Why do I make sure to create enough clean space for them in my messed up room? Why do I always run to them when I really want to cry? Why do I just hold them and inhale their fragrance when I find little life around me? Why do I chase them like a mad woman in dreams? Why do I just simply look at them intently even when a pile of work is left to be completed? Why do I just want them when they can’t even hold my hands and speak to me lovingly like a human would do? What is it that brings me every single time to them?
They breathe life in me with their words. They let me travel with their stories. They allow me to rant over everything that distresses me. In their presence, I shed the skin of who I pretend to me because they ask for the real me. They don’t toy with me. They don’t play around. They don’t complain when I sob and throw tantrums. They would merely want me to absorb what they have to give me, silently. Their holy presence is my safe haven. And, it is the simple pleasure of deriving sempiternal bliss out of reading which pulls me towards them. Every time.
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