To read is to love and I have done very little reading lately. Stuck in a reality of time, imprisoned by tasks and chores with no choice but to obey. Ambition after ambition of every page waiting for my eyes to be laid upon on. Each title of each book calling out my name as they collect dust in my assorted cabinets for every day that passes. Three months ago I promised my self to finish reading at least one of them. Yet, here I am with an additional book to join their sad bandwagon of unread collections.
How I miss to read words not of my own. To smell printed ink on paper of stories out of this world. My imagination, dry after months of being untouched, yearns to be renewed. To refresh what once was and bring about new life in the art. My beating heart pounds into my blood the hunger of surreality that only stories can bring about.
If time would permit, book after book shall be read. Stories to flood the desiring brain of colors of every kind from every genre. Repainting the dull life with what should be, a disaster of colors that go with every bit of emotion brought about by word followed by word.
To read is to love and I desire to love greatly.
