Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Fussy Bookworm
I eat vegetables. All those green leafy stuff parents trick their little ones into eating. I can sit as comfortably in a hole in the wall food house as in a fine dining restaurant. You can bring me from the chicest to the shabbiest places and I’ll still enjoy. I can say I’m not finicky, at all. Well, except when in comes down to books.
I am very particular with the books I read, whether it be by an extremely commercialized author or just a random one with an interesting cover art. I take time researching about them first, going over reviews and comments. I don’t care if every bookworm in this planet had already read it, except me. If I don’t think it’s worth my time, I won’t mind. That’s why I never bothered reading New Moon and the rest of the so-called Saga.
Looking for the perfect book is like looking for a perfect match. And more interesting is the fact that there can be a million perfect matches. The criteria don’t have to be selfsame at all times. It depends on your mood. It must please no one else but you.
Sometimes, there seems nothing fit to match and you leave a 4 story bookstore I call heaven empty-handed. But there are days you get lucky, and find a whole 2 months worth of read in one go.
My being picky, of course, has a reason. And it’s this:
Books for me have magic. They save me in the same way Miley Cyrus called Britney Spears her hero. Books inspire me, teach me and, sometimes, exasperate me. (in a good way, of course) Do you know how it feels when a friend consistently deceives you and so, in the long run, you don’t want anything that has to do with her? That’s exactly how I don’t want to feel about books. I’m picky, because I don’t want to lose that connection, that trust of knowing you’re in for a good ride everytime. That regardless of how you’re world is turning, at least, something alive, although not breathing, won’t let you down.
Books are my heroes.
They can save you, too, if you give them a chance.
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