tsundoku

I often think about books. Words that come together in phrases, linking paragraphs to a page, to pages, to flipping, to tell a story. To convey a life, lives so beautiful, people so real, emotions so valid. Its aesthetically pleasing, it is beautiful. I try not to fall into self destructive habits, but its so easy to accommodate for the needs of others, be jealous of people you don’t know, and to exist without loving myself constantly and endlessly. So I found reading as an escape, and manifestation of my daydreams, a place I could go without physically leaving my own space. The infinite web of my mind.