I have to wonder, is there anything better in life than getting wrapped up in a good book?
Sometimes I get so into books that it takes a few minutes after closing them to come back to reality. It's like my life has become the story, and the "real world" is just a strangely hazy existence. I can only think about and feel for the characters. I ruminate on them until I can open the spine again, like I'm savoring the last bite of dessert all night.
I am conflicted between racing through the pages or not. I rush to find out what happens next, but I also want to take in every last word and detail to get the full experience the author intended. When I finish the last page, I am happy for a few minutes. I sit in silence pondering what I just read and really taking it in, but then I feel an emptiness. I wonder and doubt how any other book I read next could ever entrance me in the same way. Then a few weeks or months later, the story leaves me. I can recall the main gist, but those little intricacies that made it so addicting have fled my memories.
If I haven't had the time to start another book, I forget how the rush of emotions and adrenaline felt with each turn of the page, and I look at my bookshelf uninterested. It doesn't seem worth investing time into a book to lose time to watch TV, browse the internet, play guitar, or indulge in other down time activities.
But every summer, my book fever starts anew, and I cannot imagine doing anything else but reading.