How do I even start talking about books?
OMG.
This is basically the biggest part of my life ever since I was about four.I remember being supah tiny and annoying and having these little colourful fairty-tale something books.They weren't really all the princess kind of fairty tales,but I was really keen on them,and I believe they were written by Hans Christan Andersen.I don't know.So,one day, just decided to read them for myself,since having someone else read them to me is annoying,irrelevant,and way too dependent for my style(and yes,I was an independent-to-be little creature of the Devil even back in the day).Of course my reading pretty much sucked as hell,but it was good enough to get me through a 20-50 pages book.I couldn't really make out how you had to pronounce certain sound groups or so,but I was just glad enough I could get alone through a book.It was kind of a big deal to me,I suppose.
Anyway,the years got by,and despite everyone else pretty much either ignoring books or talking shit about them,I just sort of layed low and avoided serious long time commitments(in a metaphorical,still talking about books,way).But one day this just wasn't good enough.I don't recall a certain book that made me realise how big of a deal this all was to me,but sometime,I just sort of got to the point when I realised you could as well take away my air,but not my books.
Books are just too big of a deal for me.
I just can't.
It's like,if I feel a certain connection to the book,cheesy as it sounds,I simply cannot put it down.It is like my very essence is in that book and I am only fully myself while holding it nicely and being able to focus on everything there.Then,when I finish it,especially if it has some sort of WHAT THE ACTUAL BLOODY HELL IS THIS ending,I go in some sort of a PTSD mode.
Characters.
OMG.
This is basically the biggest part of my life ever since I was about four.I remember being supah tiny and annoying and having these little colourful fairty-tale something books.They weren't really all the princess kind of fairty tales,but I was really keen on them,and I believe they were written by Hans Christan Andersen.I don't know.So,one day, just decided to read them for myself,since having someone else read them to me is annoying,irrelevant,and way too dependent for my style(and yes,I was an independent-to-be little creature of the Devil even back in the day).Of course my reading pretty much sucked as hell,but it was good enough to get me through a 20-50 pages book.I couldn't really make out how you had to pronounce certain sound groups or so,but I was just glad enough I could get alone through a book.It was kind of a big deal to me,I suppose.
Anyway,the years got by,and despite everyone else pretty much either ignoring books or talking shit about them,I just sort of layed low and avoided serious long time commitments(in a metaphorical,still talking about books,way).But one day this just wasn't good enough.I don't recall a certain book that made me realise how big of a deal this all was to me,but sometime,I just sort of got to the point when I realised you could as well take away my air,but not my books.
Books are just too big of a deal for me.
I just can't.
It's like,if I feel a certain connection to the book,cheesy as it sounds,I simply cannot put it down.It is like my very essence is in that book and I am only fully myself while holding it nicely and being able to focus on everything there.Then,when I finish it,especially if it has some sort of WHAT THE ACTUAL BLOODY HELL IS THIS ending,I go in some sort of a PTSD mode.
I mean,just smelling a book fills my heart with joy and happiness and love and unicorns and rainbows.And my heart is usually more like an empty,cold,dark place to be.If it even exists,trust me.
But that simple smell of printed paper,the touch of the feeble pages,the image of the letter and the cover,and all.These are all just too much for me to stay angry after a shit day.
What I cannot understand is how people can treat their book badly(reason why I did not use the gif where Pat-aka the lad above- throws the book outside the window).Really.They are just like,I don't know,fine with writing messages on them,or doodle-ing stuff on them,or making certain quotes stand out with some really colourful sharpie.And you shall not even get me going about morons that rip pages,covers,or let a book anywhere near food or drinks.No,Sir.You wash your darn hands,keep food away and take care of that goddarn book because it is way more important to the world than you.Kay?Kay.
And there is really what makes that book what it is.The book.
I can't.I can not.These beings that are not even beings make me regret my life 101% more,as if I wasn't miserable enough.My simple life mottot sort of goes like this:my problem isn't that fictional characters aren't real,my problem is that I am not fictional.These people just make me feel nice and cozy and all the places they go feel more like home that the actual place where I live and hate and I just have a lot stronger connections to these people than real life people and UGH.I mean,I fall in love,like literally,with fictional characters,I look for my role models in fictional characters,I look for my family,Jesus,in these characters.And I find everything and everyone I need in these goddamn characters.
Plus,the place,god.
I mean,there are so so so so many places I'd rather be than right here.I'd even switch my internet connected life for a place in District 12.Okay,maybe we shouldn't go so far.However,as long as there's Gale and Peeta,it can't be that bad.Umm.Nevermind.
I think I may've got a little too emotional and serious about this.But I can't help it,books just make my hear burst with joy.It's like they speak to me.
Metaphorically,I am not that nuts yet.
And I now get why people say certain books are not right for you,or are too hard for you to read at a certain age.Because it is important to relate to them,to hear them talk,and in order to do that properly you need a certain baggage of moments and life experience.It's an awkward thing to say out loud.
Whatever.
Love always,
Me.
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