UPDATE, H0R! (cause lj is for the sexass)
Warning: Written at 6 AM, resulting from too many post-apocalyptic stories. Should consult physician if you aspire to retain higher brain function. The following has been known to cause mass brain cell suicide due to mad confusion, obscurity, and melodrama.
I love to read. Not only for the plot, the characters, or anything and everything that constitutes a story...I read to escape. (I guess a requirement for cliches is that they hold some element of truth, at the least.) Whether it's to escape from this reality or to invade another, I haven't figured it out yet. Invade being a rather harsh term, albeit often appropriate. Occasionally I do feel as if I'm invading someone else's life; sometimes bursting through their door unwelcomed and demanding to observe, everything slightly too pieced-together and subdued. Other times, it's like I've caught a trace of something on the wind, and couldn't help being drawn in. Then, all is vivid and surreal, vulnerable but ignorant to my presence. The best invasions aren't, though; they're more out-of-body experiences than anything, and they cause you to forget yourself. They create for you a whole other persona to adhere to; a guise of who you could be instead, if you were ever to dispose of yourself as you are now. It's relieving to know that there are, in fact, other possibilities open for consideration out there. So far, that's one of the best feelings I've come across in life. I feel almost more aware of myself, in control even, knowing that I can voluntarily stray from who I am.
I love the raw emotion involved in reading. Between what's actually written out and how it leaves you feeling, it's almost overwhelming sometimes. It's so strange that mere words can evoke so many different things in you, and even moreso how the results vary dependent on the person. Something so simple as letter arrangement can leave me aching for human contact (Which I really prefer not to have while I'm reading; it takes away from the facade of the reality I adore...), from just sharing space to deep kissing, the kind that's so intense that you feel whole, loved. The feeling that I both dread and yearn for at once is of the tired, hopeless type, when you feel so world-weary that it just bears no weight anymore. That makes me want to hold onto all that I have until I can't, and cry until all that's left is a dull, throbbing ache that completely consumes me. That's when I forget myself the most, and I feel much older than should be allowed. I want to skip past everything; all the mindless teenage angst, the anxiety of newfound adulthood, the interminable stretch of repetitive daily life...but I can't. Because life in itself is ceaseless, and mostly transpires by rote. There is minimal variation, excepting the occasional flip of a switch, when you come across something new and undiscovered for yourself, only to find that its shine has a limited warranty. This is when I wish that I still believed in...well, anything really. Whatever will keep me from believing that there's no gratifying result to all of this.
My point, which I have strayed from so ridiculously that it should be illegal, is that words pull me from my present reality, and drop me into another. Not necessarily an unreal one, but an alternative. As if it's just as likely that I'll stumble across it again one day, thinking hazily of the past, only to realize that it's already the future. After all, don't they say that life imitates art?
I love to read. Not only for the plot, the characters, or anything and everything that constitutes a story...I read to escape. (I guess a requirement for cliches is that they hold some element of truth, at the least.) Whether it's to escape from this reality or to invade another, I haven't figured it out yet. Invade being a rather harsh term, albeit often appropriate. Occasionally I do feel as if I'm invading someone else's life; sometimes bursting through their door unwelcomed and demanding to observe, everything slightly too pieced-together and subdued. Other times, it's like I've caught a trace of something on the wind, and couldn't help being drawn in. Then, all is vivid and surreal, vulnerable but ignorant to my presence. The best invasions aren't, though; they're more out-of-body experiences than anything, and they cause you to forget yourself. They create for you a whole other persona to adhere to; a guise of who you could be instead, if you were ever to dispose of yourself as you are now. It's relieving to know that there are, in fact, other possibilities open for consideration out there. So far, that's one of the best feelings I've come across in life. I feel almost more aware of myself, in control even, knowing that I can voluntarily stray from who I am.
I love the raw emotion involved in reading. Between what's actually written out and how it leaves you feeling, it's almost overwhelming sometimes. It's so strange that mere words can evoke so many different things in you, and even moreso how the results vary dependent on the person. Something so simple as letter arrangement can leave me aching for human contact (Which I really prefer not to have while I'm reading; it takes away from the facade of the reality I adore...), from just sharing space to deep kissing, the kind that's so intense that you feel whole, loved. The feeling that I both dread and yearn for at once is of the tired, hopeless type, when you feel so world-weary that it just bears no weight anymore. That makes me want to hold onto all that I have until I can't, and cry until all that's left is a dull, throbbing ache that completely consumes me. That's when I forget myself the most, and I feel much older than should be allowed. I want to skip past everything; all the mindless teenage angst, the anxiety of newfound adulthood, the interminable stretch of repetitive daily life...but I can't. Because life in itself is ceaseless, and mostly transpires by rote. There is minimal variation, excepting the occasional flip of a switch, when you come across something new and undiscovered for yourself, only to find that its shine has a limited warranty. This is when I wish that I still believed in...well, anything really. Whatever will keep me from believing that there's no gratifying result to all of this.
My point, which I have strayed from so ridiculously that it should be illegal, is that words pull me from my present reality, and drop me into another. Not necessarily an unreal one, but an alternative. As if it's just as likely that I'll stumble across it again one day, thinking hazily of the past, only to realize that it's already the future. After all, don't they say that life imitates art?