Ever since I was little, the book store was simultaneously the best and worst place in the world. You don't set a diabetic fat kid loose in a candy store, and you don't let me loose in a book store. First of all, I'll spend ALL my money. All of it. Secondly, it's a maddening experience for me. The choices whisper at me from row upon row of thick, heavy paper and flimsy paperback bindings. The books leer down at me in an arrogance unrivaled in my mind--knowing I would sooner go insane than know the piece I bought was the right one, that there was not a better one--more--out there for me.
When you finally make your decision--when you finally adopt your paper and ink child--you (hopefully and dismally) become absorbed in the piece. You adopt the writer's profile, their thoughts, their way of life and speech. You struggle to not speak in the voice of the tweaked teenager in Shirley Jackson's We Have Always Lived In The Castle, you concoct clever yet simple plans and dream of stars alive a la Tristran Thorn from Gaiman's Stardust (and cringe each. And every time. You read his name).
They become a part of you, you know. Whether you like it or not, people are capable of osmosis. Whatever you read, you become. Forget what you eat--or, rather, you eat books. At least I do. Sometimes they're dry, sometimes unpleasant, but more often, they are savory and exciting, dancing in the mind like citrus on the tongue. The best ones linger, singing your thoughts like the Ghost pepper. You wash it down with glass upon glass of milk, page upon page of some softer, less grabbing material, but the burn stays, sometimes scarring your very way of thinking forever. There is nothing you can do to escape this fantastic experience, save possibly shutting yourself off from the written word entirely--and what kind of an individual would do that?
And that, is why I hate books.
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