Making time for a quick read has become harder in the past year. All of a sudden, reading isn’t a pleasure anymore, it’s a chore.
Does that sound a bit dramatic to you? Pricey maybe?
I was five the first time I went here, looking up at the high-stacked bookshelves as if they were buildings. One visit turned two, two became three, four, so on.
It’s easy to feel alone in this world, people walk around with a façade that life is merry and there isn’t a care in the world while their soul screams for help or someone to just notice them and ask them if they’re okay.
Now in all the hundreds and thousands of books that you will come across in your entire life, there are bound to be some that would stand out, some that would be forgotten, and some that would be left behind.
Papertowns and Looking for Alaska, by John Green, have both made me realize that I’m not the only one feeling lost in this world.
Some books begin softly, with the paddle of assurance, like slipping into a warm lake at the edge of dark. Other books do not begin that way. They begin un-calmly, with threats, warnings, rumors of distant war.
The sheer dynamic of friendships and relationships in Harry Potter is enough, to me, to make those seven books and eight movies the best of all time.
I realized that reading was actually toxic for me. I get so lost in this dream-like state that I refuse to be settled back in my own true world.