Books and First Love

Cheers to another peaceful night here at work where everyone is sound asleep, except for me, obviously; and Taylor Swift is currently playing in the background (How You Get the Girl).

This will just be another one of my posts wherein I'm blabbering to myself. :)

I started reading books again lately, which I was not able to do as much as I wanted to in the last couple of years. And it made me glad. Books have always been my respite whenever the outside world gets too busy or loud for my taste. Weirdly though during the pandemic, I haven't been able to read a lot of books. Maybe because I've been too anxious and it seemed like I can't keep my mind still enough to focus on the words that I was reading. 

Luckily now, after dragging myself through the first couple of pages and I relearned how to focus again, I'm finally back with my first love. Books. Stories. Words. It felt like home - a safe space to keep my heart and mind still. The funny thing is once I get back into it, I ended up spending most of my free time reading - and sniffing the pages of the books. I've been rereading most of my YA books in between the new ones that I'm currently exploring - memoirs, contemporary fiction and such. And god it feels good. I guess I just miss how each story makes me feel. Don't I just love torturing myself by going back to the books that showed me how it must feel like to fall in love, the heartbreak from a loss, or the joys found in the company of kindred souls. 

 

Maybe that is the reason why I love books. Because  aside from the story itself, I end up wondering about the people who wrote them as well. I wonder what or who inspired them to write that story. I sometimes hurt my brain by thinking too much about these things. Maybe that is the reason why I find myself scared to try some of the things that I read about no matter how good it might be. Because through the stories, I also felt how it must feel like to lose something that good. Even though it was imaginary for some, the emotions I felt were all too real for me. Some might even say that it was just a small part of the real thing and I'll be missing a lot if I skipped on it. But it being just a "sample" of the real thing is what probably scares me the most. Because if what I end up feeling from reading the book is in reality just half of the real thing, I'm not sure if I would be able to take it.  (Thank you Adele for singing Make You Feel My Love while I'm writing this specific part. haha) 

I guess this answers some of the questions that I have about myself. Cheers to the next few more that might come my way. :)

P.S. Just had another realization while I was rereading and watching the movie/TV series adaptation of the YA books that I've read. It's something that my bestfriend also noticed. haha

1. In the series Summer I Turned Pretty - we can now relate more with the moms (Susannah and Laurel), specially their lifelong friendship, than with the 16 y/o protagonist (Belly).

2. While reading Eleanor and Park, I noticed that I also use the same perfume that Park's mom uses (Imari from Avon).

3. In the book The Truth About Forever, I find myself relating easily to Delia (Wes's aunt/guardian) and her Yoda thoughts. :)