I can’t decide which book to read because I want to read all of them. Instead, I take each one in my hands, carefully, like they were made out of porcelain, and gently tumb through them. I try to catch glimpses of what’s hiding between the pages, beneath the words, hoping it would help me decide which one I should take home with me. I stay there for a long time, but the decision gets harder with every book I take off the shelf. It seems highly unfair to have to decide and I was never good at making decisions anyways.
So I walk away empty-handed and even lonelier than I was when I walked in.
I wish I could read them all. And then again. The first time, you get to know the story. The second time, perhaps, you start discovering the beauty underneath; the complexity of situations, the depth of characters, the ambiguity of words.
It’s like with people, you know? I want to read all of your stories, thoroughly, to fully understand who you are – and even then I might miss something because only the author himself (and not even him at times) understands the true meaning behind those sentences. But there’s too many, I cannot read all of them. Hell, I cannot even read the ones I take from the shelves, I cannot understand them, they are written in different languages and in different styles and they keep getting new pages and I simply cannot keep up with all of that.
So I walk away empty-handed and even lonelier than I was when I walked in.