Her Love of Books
She liked reading, browsing old, dusty books at secondhand stores, going to author readings and purchasing a copy to be signed, ordering them online and shipping them to her tiny studio apartment. Her one-room apartment was filled to the brim with them - resting against the walls, stacked up on the floor. She had bought a trunk as a makeshift coffee table and that too was filled, with books.
One cold winter night, she closed the book she was reading, looked at the two that were waiting to be read on her bedside table. And in that instant, an overwhelming sense of emptiness filled her, so quickly and so vast that it brought her to tears. She wasn't passionate about books or reading. She was just passionate, and had yet to find the human vessel in which to pour her passion into. She wanted to absorb everything about them, like she did the passages she devoured nightly. She wanted to escape with them, reveal their darkest secrets, know their innermost thoughts.
It wasn't books she was in love with.
One cold winter night, she closed the book she was reading, looked at the two that were waiting to be read on her bedside table. And in that instant, an overwhelming sense of emptiness filled her, so quickly and so vast that it brought her to tears. She wasn't passionate about books or reading. She was just passionate, and had yet to find the human vessel in which to pour her passion into. She wanted to absorb everything about them, like she did the passages she devoured nightly. She wanted to escape with them, reveal their darkest secrets, know their innermost thoughts.
It wasn't books she was in love with.
Comments