It has become increasingly difficult to read or even write
these days. I start something and don’t to how to continue with it and no
matter how much I crave for the earlier enthusiasm to do either, I just can’t.
I feel guilty about all the unread books I have with me, or the books I want to
read, but it just doesn’t happen.
Once, books and writing were my solace, my escape from the
hard realities of this world. I could lose myself in them, they made me feel
smarter, they made me feel strangely me, but mostly through them I connected to
the eccentric side of me. These activities, no matter how regular, made me feel
unique, as if I was just slightly apart from the rest, or when I felt alone and
scared, I connected with them like nothing else.
And now I miss it so much, I miss being so in love with a
book that I never want it to finish, or relating myself to the characters or my
heart pumping so fast when something exciting is going to happen in it. I miss
posting regularly and knowing that someone there is reading, relating.. maybe even
understanding.
I miss pouring it all out here, I miss my old self at
times..
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