FROM THE SMELL of the fresh paper print that lingers in my senses or the same awestruck expression whenever I’m in a library, the multiple bucks I save to grab the latest edition of the new bestseller in the nearest bookstore, to the recommendations I give some friends and acquaintances who share the same interests in a good read. Not every other person would understand my fascination for reading. Why save so much money for a material I would just read for a few days and put back in a shelf where the countless collection goes, anyway. Most people would find it queer how I would spend most of my days (and nights) engaging myself in a fictitious land of adventures, mystery, tragedy, and even romance. Most people would find it impossible that I could spend my leisure time with ears covered with earphones and eyes stuck in a good read. Not everyone could comprehend how I feel because they assume it is make-believe. Yes, it is made by a creative and imaginative mind; but the lessons are more discreet to be applied in this ‘labyrinth’ we call life. One day, someone asked me what I gain from reading. I would often joke with the technicalities, “additional knowledge in literature, wider vocabulary, view on how authors write a NYT bestseller, broader perspective and eye bags”. Okay, maybe the latter is not a technical thing; but let me tell you this, there’s more to that than meets the eye. A BOOK is an escape, a happy place, a friend, an aide-memoire, and most of all, a part of me. It shares my tears, my interjections, and all my emotions. Turning to the last page may be one of the best feelings in the world, but it feels as if a part of me is concluding, too. The bittersweet feeling can’t be helped, though. I am a bibliophile, after all.
(featured image courtesy of feminiya.com)