103 pages to go.
i get such an uneasy feeling when i get into a good book. what a weird feeling it is to be drawn into something that has no life, but just simple words on pages of paper. it kind of astounds me. how someone can string together such beautiful statements really makes me jealous beyond words. its so bittersweet when i fall in love with a piece of literature. i want to know what the authors were doing while they wrote it, or who they are as individuals. but at the same time i hate them so much without even knowing who they are. why cant i write like "so and so" can? why do i delete or erase or store on little scraps of paper in random notebooks scattered across my room, writings that will never see the light of day? at the same time, i want to write everything down, without a single memory ever getting lost. im embarrassed by my own words. oh silly me.