For as long as I can remember I have always loved what books could do for me. The text on the page gave me an out, an escape from the confusion of the “real world”. It was as if words were my lifeline, my safety net, but later, my demise. They took me in their arms to a world where the bad guys were caught and love was something to believe in. Yet, just as soon as I felt myself blurring the lines between fantasy and life, I remembered every book concludes with “and they lived happily ever after”.
I am 25 years old now and while children’s books have turned into 1920’s classics or modern-day thrillers, I still see myself within the pages. In each word, each profession of love, or each timid look over the victim’s shoulder as her fear takes hold, I lose myself right there with them. I think because I can find a piece of myself in the books I read, I can feel a sort of relief. The kind of relief that allows my cynical-self to believe in fantasies the way I did when I had not yet been told by the “real world” who I was supposed to be.
I like a happy ending strictly because it makes me smile. It makes me happy. Yes, most of the time I roll my eyes at the clichés, but I smile, and it feels good. The characters in whatever book I am reading will always have that happy ending. I know this because all books end. As for me, there is no always. It just does not work that way. There is right nows, laters, possiblys, and nevers. But that is okay, I have books to give me my always.
No one understands true love anymore. At least not with people. It is much easier to fall in love with objects, ideas, beliefs, or even how someone makes you feel. I am guilty of this. I fall in love with books. That is what I want you to get out of these blog posts. I want to show you how beautiful it is to fall in love with a book and that sense of security that it can bring.
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