I like to read.
I read a lot.
I love to read.
I really read a lot.
Really, really a lot.
It started off with illustrated stories of a noble bear and his young cat friend. It was funny and I liked the fantastic adventures they had with magical beings and strange technology made by silly inventors.
Then I found detective novels. Old ladies who happen to be curious about events in the region and somehow got dragged into solving the mystery, professional detectives doing work for police and government.
Fantasy and science fiction was next. Roaming the galaxies as the lone anti-heroe, as a mundane salesman, as a soldier to fight hostile creatures on distant planets. Travelling around the world to find a special magical item in a dragon’s den, saving disguised princesses from evil witches and demons, meeting different little and large folks.
The horror couldn’t scare me enough. I wanted to run from hungry monsters, hide in silence from undead, get trapped in mazes full of poisenous creatures.
I read a lot.
I wanted to read.
I needed to read.
I craved to read.
I got fired because I messed up a lot at work. I couldn’t stay awake there because I spent all night reading.
I went around to search for books that would get thrown away. Garage sales, pawn shops, boxes of books from deceased people when nobody had a use for them.
Sometimes I’d fall asleep. Then when I woke up I started reading at once. I often ignored hunger and thirst, eating anything quick when I had to. I lost a lot of weight.
I desired the books, the sentences, the words. I dived into them, floated among them, revelled in them.
I didn’t know when I was reading or hallucinating.
It didn’t matter anymore.
I found bliss.
I wonder when they’ll find my body between the stacks. There have been accounts of dead bodies lying around for years before anyone accidentally found them. I have no contact with others. No family, friends.
I’ll be here for a long time.
Maybe it’ll inspire someone to write a story.