books are drugs.

after a 24-hour hiatus, I am here again.
they call to me from the shelves above, inviting themselves into my arms. how else can I explain how the one book I am holding turns into five, ten more, replicating at a pace that would rival that of rabbits.
like an office without greenery, a home without books is lifeless and bleak. there's even something in the smell of a book that makes a room feel richer.
psychological studies tell me that simply by reading a book, you may fall under its influence by adapting your beliefs and the way you live your life.
I bring them home with me, where the most aesthetically pleasing ones are snatched up quickly, while the fatter tomes that beg for my promise of commitment languish on the bedside table. the three week deadline rolls around, despite my attempts to keep them in my possession a little longer, and the greater majority return unread, not even opened. but it doesn't matter. building a book fortress, blanketing myself with books, breathing in books... it's almost the same as reading them, isn't it?
I'm like Alaska Young, constructing around myself a wall of books to hide behind.
but I'm reading myself out.

I won't muddy the waters by starting on my anti-kindle rant.
until next time.



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