There’s one thing about books that gets me so addicted.
It’s that feeling that with the simple turn of a page it’s perfectly ok to just leave your own reality behind…no matter how glamorous or disappointing. Its that feeling that in the little time you spend wrapped in the lines and stories of someone else’s words you can stop worrying, stop hoping, stop thinking about anything else other than “what happens next.”
Besides…the best thing about books is that they always have an end. I guess sometimes you just get tired of living in a never ending plot.
Despite the fact that I may love books insanely, I have never been able to bring myself to read the same book twice. Except one…Sylvia Plath’s very own, The Bell Jar. I must have read it three or four times and i have no idea what it is that keeps me coming back to it. But there is this one part that gets me every time. One part that reminds me that sometimes books play tricks on you…that instead of putting your reality on hold, they just plunge you back into it and suddenly your filled with more worries, more hopes, more thoughts than ever before…
“I saw myself sitting at the foot of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn’t make up my mind which of these figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet.”
I never really liked figs anyway…
: : : I tear my heart open. I sew myself shut. My weakness is that I care too much. And my scars remind me that the past is real. I tear my heart open just to feel : : :
— Scars, Papa Roach —