Page Eight

When I crack open a book, specifically an old dust covered hardback, in horrible condition, I feel something in me, and suddenly I need those words, I need that author’s heart. I want to feel the heartbeat of every word they’ve ever written. And I cling to it, to all the greats and the hidden treasures. And rather than your average smut attention reader who seeks validation from men I choose my absolute ecstasy from the words of wisdom and poetry because that is where I belong. In the forests with Robin Hood and between the pages of a family drama that Tolstoy lived. Or work in the fields of industry such as Oliver Twist. Don’t you see? The world is shown in those times and the works of” literature” is irrelevant to our culture or it is a direct reflection. So true forms of literature and being reduced. And we chase the men. We chase the sex. That is why so many modern books are filled with sex and mindless romance. True romance to me is the coffee stains of twenty-year-old table, it’s the slight smell of cigarettes, it’s a cup of tea, it’s the pages of those who truly know what romance was, and so in turn when one does have this awakening the realize it’s not “love” they desire, its literature. And it’s the most basic human thing, and I believe that to be absurdly beautiful and powerful.