I love books. But books are not living.
I love books. I regard them as old friends. They comfort me and inform me. A house without books feels.... hollow and staged. But I also know I have used books as a coping mechanism, as a way to avoid honesty, sharing and connection. As an introvert, spending the afternoon reading a book is blissful. But I used to use books and "research" to mask my growing discomfort with my life. I used to use books like my drug of avoidance. Instead of facing my life head on, I would retreat to my world of books. Instead of asking the hard questions like, what do you want? I would bury myself in a new book that promised to help me find me. Books are great. I still love books. But books are not living.
Needing a break once in awhile is normal; books can be exciting and pleasurable, soothing and comfortable. But when it becomes a necessity, then that begs the question: what are you not willing to look at? What is so painful you need to escape? And when will you know enough to finally live?
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