Each Coming Night


I love reading. I find it hard to understand how one cannot enjoy this wonderful pastime. I can spend hours, sucked into a book. I have so many I have to finish, that I’m currently reading three at once. Well, you know what I mean. I just find an extreme comfort, and feeling of pure bliss when reading. I could spend all day in a library or a bookstore. None of my friends actually enjoy literature, and it’s quite frustrating.

When I purchase a new novel, (which I currently have) I have a great compulsion to smell the new book… Each one has it’s own personal scent. And with each, comes unbelievable adoration. I also flip through the pages, to hear what kind of sound they make. Again, every book has their own quirk about it. They’re all individuals, all different in their own ways. My mother is the only person I know who actually understands why I engage in such activities and doesn’t find it strange. Simply because she has  a love for them just as I do. The biggest frustration I have about reading, is, time. I never have enough of it to do so. Or have enough to read all of the wonderful novels I come across. Sigh. 



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