I have a serious love for a good book. Actually it doesn't even have to be "good", just enough to hold my attention until I get interested and want to know how it ends and I am hooked. I disappear into another world. I cannot seem to tear myself away from it. If I am forced to tear myself away (and trust me it happens seeing how the responsibilities of everyday life and taking care of a man and two mini-men doesn't just suspend in time until I am finished) I am a very unpleasant person to be around. All that I can think of is getting back to my book. Back to the story, back to my "friends".
The reason that I am thinking of this now is because I just finished a good book. I had a sort of epiphany I guess, I had never actually been able to put my finger on what happens to me when I finish reading something that I get so engrossed in. I am sad, lonely, restless, and bored. I feel like I lost a hobby or a friend or a part of me. I would love to dive right into another book to fill the gaping hole that not having something to read has left but then my real life suffers. Matt doesn't allow me to start new books very often. I think the only time he doesn't complain is when I haven't read one in a while and he forgets how consumed I get.
So, what do I do now? Do I wander around the house doing silly, meaningless things such as... feeding the family, doing laundry, washing dishes, talking to human beings, making eye contact, showering... or do I start another book? If you ask me what I WANT to do, it would be to curl up someplace where nobody can find me and read a book cover to cover without even looking up from it. I think I should probably stick to what I SHOULD do, instead of doing what my heart desires, and rejoin the land of the living. I will leave the land of words that let you imagine it however your mind sees it, I have to for the sanity of my family, but I will not be able to stay away for long...