October 8 2012
I have always believed that to fantasize is to fool yourself. Outright.
But it just feels so good. Wouldn’t you agree?
It’s been three years since I had my last relationship. I’m the type who prefers a deep one… well, at least not a futile one, that I’m convinced I’m not wasting my time. But I daresay, I miss having one. Ever since I stepped into college, there was always someone being linked with me, someone who’d express a bit, someone who’d flirt, yadah yadah yadah. Don’t get me wrong, I sort of dig that too, but still, my heart’s so convinced that it’s a waste of time if it’s not worth pursuing. But at times, books are my lovers.
I fear that I’d be that woman who would, in the future, live alone buried in her books with cats. The thought makes me grimace. I fucking hate cats. Except for Marvin. They make my skin crawl. I hope I had a dog… makes me remember Chico. The thought makes me miss him terribly.
Yes. I’ve faced many demons. I believe we never really lose them, else, we can all die immediately.
I admit that I am an escapist. And books are my ultimate escape. As the cliche goes, books can take you anywhere. Precisely. Though I prefer science fiction, I try reading a variety of books. It’s always given me the room to fantasize. Hell. Most of them are painstakingly main stream. I mean, the same sing-song pattern. And I say publicly I’m anti-main stream. But as most people delve into their fantasies, realizing or not that they are caught up in their own craziness, I do too. Because fuck, it just feels so good.
Ever since I’ve read the Twilight series, I’ve always admitted that it was Precious Hearts Romance glorified. If ever I gave the idea that I had a reputation as an intelligible reader, people would slap me, like, what the fuck’s wrong with you? But would I deny that they entertain me? Though I admit that they sort of are a visual remark of the declining preference for literature of our generation, they serve as an outlet for me.
Sort of satiates my hunger for emotion, whatever they may be. I’m kind of a hedonist, I confess, again. A big part of me believes I need to satisfy my desires regularly. Because I don’t want to crack at a time I am needed strong and erect. Whenever I feel stressed, I’d read. Whenever there’d be a problem at home, I’d read. Problem with friends? Read. Problem with fucking life… read. Hell, I have a lot of books lined up! I can’t wait to read them all and stack them in my future library!
So where do I go with this? Well, fuck. I love books. I hope I had all the money to buy them. I know at a point… a lot of points that is… I fool myself. Suspension of disbelief. Gahd! It’s my fling! That it is. There comes a time when I want to stop, because sometimes I feel I’m wasting my time. Because I’m fooling myself. I’d be just distraught. Stressed? Whatever. Right now, books are still the best technology I have ever encountered in my life, withstanding even Tap Tap. Hahaha!
I hope with my hope of hopes that I put my fantasies to use! Hahaha… Hell, if I’m gonna waste my time, waste my time to something good, right?