One of the problems with a love for reading is that every time something sad happens, something falls apart, you are left with all the possibilities that could have been. Not just possibilities from your imagination, but from the imagination of every author you ever read. You think to yourself, I would have worn two sweaters each day so as to not feel cold, I would have cycled to work, we would have taken walks on weekend, the house would have been full of books, compliments would have been saved for birthdays and anniversaries and so on.
Perhaps that's why I dwell so much. I think of what didn't happen (fact) and then I think about the millions of things that didn't happen (fiction), and now never will. And this of course leads to a journey million miles below the surface of the truth.
I wouldn't stop reading though. I couldn't stop. But sometimes I wish I had only my imagination to deal with. Or an off button.
No comments:
Post a Comment