I have found myself consumed with a love affair of sorts. Not with another person, but one with my lifelong hobby of devouring books and losing myself in their fictional worlds. Hobby is not the right word; this interest of mine is so much more--more intense, more passionate, and more like a relationship. Sometimes it is a romantic, whimsical love affair. At other times it is a dangerous, frightening tryst that I know isn't good for me, but makes me feels so satisfied. And of course there is the guilty pleasure, the lover that isn't quite good enough for me, not even remotely challenging enough, but that brings me to a happy, simple place, devoid of responsibility and deep thought. I forgo sleep, food and anything else that takes precious time away from my beloved, and feel it pulling me back to it when I put it down to tend to life.
I am slipping into old patterns of immersing myself completely in a book and finding it difficult to extricate myself from its grips. The escape it offers me is intoxicating, too tempting to avoid and too fulfilling to stop. Now I can't get enough; I am piling my nightstand with books recommended to me, ones that I have heard about from who-knows-where and ones that just caught my eye in one of my many meandering browses through the bookstore. My drug, my addiction. My love affair.
So if you notice that I am not around much, you can almost be certain where I can be found. Tucked into the corner of my couch with a blanket thrown over my legs and a book in my lap. Enjoying my time in someone else's world and avoiding real life, this is where I will be. Who knows when I will be able to break the hold this lover has on me?
Although I need to pay more attention to reality, I am not quite sure I am ready to break it off just yet.