Confessions of a Bibliophile

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I don’t see the world like others do
I don’t see it in its glorious technicolour and vividness
And I see it through ink on paper

Black ink on white paper
Grey ink on yellowing paper
Blotted ink on texture paper
And I see my world through the words I read

and I don’t see and then comprehend
I comprehend and then see…

I read words and sentences and dots and lines and the spaces between the sentences and words and I read punctuation marks and I see mountains and valleys and oceans and rivers and forests and animals and people and I see flawed people and I see hurt ones and I see black people and white people and grey people. ..
And nothing I see is simple and everything is complex in a way that is so utterly beautiful it shatters my heart at times.
And I relate to these people more than I do to the ones standing near me and I miss them and yearn for them…
And somewhere in the middle of it all they become the reason I live and breathe
And go on through every day
Because these words make me feel alive like nothing else can and every letter that follows another becomes a new reason to live, to go on.

And I get drunk on words and high on the sentences till I can’t see straight and till all that resonates in mind is the echo of a life that transcends boundaries and time zones and that lives in an ethereal world, on the other side of the mirror
and I don’t want blood running through my veins and I want words to flow and make my heart beat and letters in my breath

and if you think it’s just a book, you’re wrong cause it is so much more
And it is a universe and I’m just another star in it.

– Confessions of a Bibliophile

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