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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