I will never get tired of reading. I will never get sick of the scent of paper populated with alphabets, words, sentences and, sometimes, pictures. I will never get fed up of turning pages, of sacrificing a vast amount of sleep time reading books, of awkwardly balancing a hardbound with my right arm while lying on bed.
I will never stop reading. I will read when my boyfriend is at work and I’m home alone so that I won’t have to wait for so long. I will read during lunch breaks and coffee breaks to temporarily detach from work stress. I will read to my future children stories about princesses and castles and, maybe, even the bespectacled wizard that I never got to know. I will read to pass the time while waiting in bus stops, train stations and airports, and keep on reading while on board. I will read to keep myself busy during lazy days, to learn about new and interesting things, to keep myself some company at times of solitude, to get to know people from the past, present and future, and also, to appreciate people from different walks of life.
There is pure bliss that I get from reading. There is a sudden rush of happiness that I get from stepping inside book stores and buying tons of books that I don’t have time to read until months later. Beside my bed is a growing pile of untouched hardbounds and paperbacks. They are collecting dust particles and falling hair but I don’t mind because I know the perfect time to read them will come and they shall serve their real purpose. That tower will keep rising and falling as I buy literary classics and fresh bestsellers and jump from one book to another. And I know for sure a piece of me will be proud, content and happy, and that is something.