When it comes to books (and their writers) I am not faithful. I am promiscuous, wanton, hedonistic and fickle to a great extend; flitting from one to the next, devouring some while merely tasting and discarding others.
Shiny covers entrance me, but only briefly. I am drawn more deeply, commit more fully, to covers which intrigue and promise rather than openly reveal.
The thrill of peeling back the cover to reveal those first words never leaves me, running my hand along the inner join of the pages a sensual caress. My soul hungers, my eyes devour.
I live for those occasional moments of divine ecstasy from a perfect sentence, a sublime phrase. For those times, I recklessly engulf myself in the passion of a heady new love, neglecting all else.
Pouring my heart into the pages as their words inscribe themselves onto my heart, I am transported, consumed. I know nothing else for a few short, glorious hours.
When it ends, as it always does, for that too is inevitable as it is with all love affairs, I am despondent. I despair for a few more moments from a tryst that has run its course. I turn back the pages as if to turn back time.
Soon, still sick of an old passion, I allow myself to be seduced by one new.
When it comes to books, I am not faithful.
Hi, I'm Misja.
I'm a writer, a mum, an (eek!) oma. ...
Do you Really want to be a Writer?
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