I was always fascinated with books. From a very young age, they never failed to abandon me. But now? Now I’m not so sure. I’m not sure if books should be given the significance I always associated them with, steadfast and unconditionally.

From a very young age, they never failed to abandon me. I could pick up which ever one (and whenever) I wanted, get caught up with them with hours on end, use them as an excuse that I’m doing something (when really I was thinking about you, or usBut now? Now I’m not so sure.

Yet, every single day, I pick one up, the same one that I’ve been relying reading for a long while now, with  renewed trust each day. With new hopes every time, I pick up the same book, eager to discover where it will transport me to, anxious to uncover what Cozy fantasy it will lure me into, keen to know what goodness and pleasure, if at all, it has in store for me.

Driven by the elevation of being immersed in ecstasy and bliss, I pick it up but, chagrined, I flip pages only to discover a bleak facade. Pages filled with letters and words and numbers yet meaningless. Emptiness. Perfectly aligned structures and layout yet uncertainty. Instability. The cover still sparkles and the pages still emanate the fresh smell of a new book but the trust and fate in the novel is long lost. Fragmented is the belief in this vapid attraction -dense with broken promises- that has only meagre fulfilment to offer.

But, in what I tell myself is an act of bravery and courage, I brace myself and take care of the book. Maintain a good relationship with it. Religiously, every morning, I dust and polish it (because we all like things we closely associate ourselves with to be spotless, right?) I arrange it, don’t let people I don’t trust touch it and I go to arduous extremes to ensure it remains pristine, that it remains pure, it remains becomes a source of goodness.

But its silly because I do this as if the untarnished outside is tantamount to an untarnished inside. As if ensuring an immaculate condition will change the fate of the events inside; unravel the course of events differently…more desirably.  Neglecting my ambivalence towards books and with renewed efforts, I yearn for the characters or the narration or the plot twists, or anything really, to live up to the glamorous reviews and spotless recommendations I received about the book. Yearn for some aspect to prove the first-hand assurances that people came up to me and endlessly proffered right.

Sometimes, I really can’t believe this is the book I bought after so much thought. But I guess it would be erroneous to say all books are unsatisfactory. It is only the likes of such that are deplorable; worthy of scorn.

I’ve tried but I can’t come to terms with it.

I knew we didn’t belong together. You were never my type. Never the one able to keep me happy.

I need to move on.

I need to find someone new.

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