Morning coffee and complaints.

I’m not a book to be read and devoured. Page turner. Chaptered. Preface. Prologue.

If I was I’d be paper back. You can see the use easily. Wear and tear.

Wouldn’t that be easier for you? That way what you interpret me to be I would then be. Making me amount to some desirous interlude. Something you escape from the reality into. I’m fictional.

If a book could somehow glare at the reader that would be happening momentarily.

Dear reader, fuck you and your insurmountable stereotypes. It is fun to imagine the world as simple as you make it. Hearts and flowers. Successes and triumphs.

Your gross naivety drives me to insanity. Sickness. Food poisoning.

What you produce in your thought bubbles is romantic and ridiculous. Temporary and incorrect. You misinterpret the information set in front of you.

It would be so nice to live in your world. A world where what you want things to mean, they mean. Truly, “the world is what you make of it.” Hearts and flowers.

Rose-colored glasses my ass; you live in a comatose state. I want to smoke what you’re smoking, oh reader. Please. For it doesn’t matter what the words say. Pages blank, you read what you want.

Because apparently, you’re imagination is greater.

Illegally Distractible

I’m addicted to something I cannot even feel.

Fifty Shades of Grey

It’s having its effects. Affects. I’m affectedly effected.

I’m transcending to a place where putting the book down is a punishment. Truly, at the base of the eroticism is a romantic wanderlust. I’m there. Seeing the surface and the unwavering under layers.

Soon it will be book 2.

To say I’m currently single would be a lie. To say my expectations have swelled is an understatement.

Pages

I have to start reading again. Opening the pages. Displacing myself. Removed. Transported.

I like the feeling of it.

Downside is not actually being in those places, those lives. I forget sometimes. Turn the page. Close the book. From there the dreams carry me through. It’s the following days that bring the wake up.

Reading is almost sad really. How am I not those people? How are those things not able to happen to me?

Who knows. That’s why we read.