I find myself wondering, ” What turns me into bookworms, returning to words of book again?”
That ‘thing’ which makes me feel sensitive towards books is absolutely a great mystery. Ravenously devouring a story and mourning it’s ending can be like falling in love for the first time. Yes, books are the real love of finding a character of similarities, struggles, heartaches, joys and successes to your own. Sometimes, instead of finding self identity with the character, some embrace themselves in the world of unknown.
Myself, considering an absolute bookworm, has immensely developed a real world connection with the worthy pages of books. I can think of reading the pleasure of books, for hours, that provides me the joy in every possible way.
” There’s no mistaking a real book when one meets it. It is like falling in love.” – Christopher Morley.
The only possible thing I do is I do read a lot. I love to read. I could read for days and never stop. I would barley look up to notice much of anything when I embrace myself in the world of non real cacophony. Reality actually doesn’t always give us the life we desire, but we can always find what we deserve between the pages of books.
” And as imagination bodies forth
The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen
Turns them to shapes and gives to airy nothing
A local habitation and a name .”