Living
I love books. Maybe a bit too much.
This morning I skipped breakfast to read a chapter in "Ask the Passengers" by A.S. King. Last night, I stayed up past midnight reading "Jellyfish Dreams" waiting for the election results that I didn't even see because it didn't matter then, I was too far into the life of Sam the Biologist who lost his fiancee.
Inn the past week I've skipped math, chemistry, world history, and comp homework to work on a story and to read "A Brave New World."
I have spent over twenty-four hours reading in just the past five days.
I have spent just over two hours playing TF2 and just over four hours playing Bioshock in the same five days.
My friends tell me I'm crazy and they are bewildered at how I can spend so much time reading.
What they don't understand is that every time I pick up a book I'm thrown into a deep hunger. I must keep reading, I must continue, because as the pages of the book turn, I feel as if I am the talking the steps, saying the things.
We a character does something embarrassing, I feel embarrassed. If they are thirsty, my mouth goes dry. When they are hurt physically or emotionally, I feel what they feel.
I am the main character of every story I read, but when I set the book down... I cry. I have effectively just died and no amount of re-reading the book will ever change that.
My own life bland and predictable, I turn to the stories of others to live for and through.
People tell me it's not healthy to do this. I tell them it's not healthy to live without purpose. Without a story.
-
1
6 Comments
Recommended Comments
Create an account or sign in to comment
You need to be a member in order to leave a comment
Create an account
Sign up for a new account in our community. It's easy!
Join the herd!Sign in
Already have an account? Sign in here.
Sign In Now