The Pain Of A Bibliophile

A book is just pages and a spine. 

Ink and an idea. 

I was in third grade when books became my addiction.. 

I was a troubled kid with troubled parents, a lot of acquaintances .

Although most people called them ducks and dogs, I called them my friends. 

China isn’t meant to break. 

Neither were people but that was what the world had in store for me. 

The paint on china is meant to hide the flawed brushstrokes of the creator, the miscalculation of the tool, The sweat stains of hardwork and pain; Paint is a mask. 

And my mask can never be cracked, because when it is, my world will show it’s gray areas, it cracks, and it’s flaws. 

Reading is like refreshing that mask. 

Just as that feeling you get from finally replacing that dusty air filter , or mopping the floors with bleach. Reading is my addiction. 

You know the feeling you get when you spill water on those freshly cleaned floors. 

The same floors that took you over an hour to sweep, mop, and polish. 

Reading a sad book is like that, like my dawn of realization that I will always be weak. 

That I could never be perfect or even come close to perfect. 

It's like the imperfection is endogenous . 

Reading enemies to lovers gives me a better version of reality. 

That someone saw all of my flaws and still loved me. 

That even after hating my entire being they lived me.  

Call me self-conscious, insecure, or whatever you please. 

I would rather stay in my world evading the tumultuous reality;happy being sad. 

I’m happy pretending I’m fine. because if I accept I’m not normal and I have problems then it becomes real. And we wouldn’t want nightmares to come true would we?