I used to get excited by the next book I'd get my clammy hands on.

who I'd meet. what journey they'd take me on. I used to marvel at the worlds that authors could create, be it small or big, realistic or roald dahl. I could get lost in them, not knowing how much time has passed but accepting the time lines I was in. I would gain respect for the writer, not knowing a single fact about them except that their imagination sparked my own. and I would aww and ooh at the paths it took me on.

I guess it's also amazing the power story books have. That no matter how ridiculous or out of this world it is - we accept it. that this is the norm in the world that has been formed and built and expanded. from just an idea. Maybe I could've dreamt to be a writer. but alas, my lack of patience and conviction would have scrunched up every fragment of a story I concocted and thrown it into my recycle bin of doubts and not-good-enoughs.

that takes me to where I am now.

holding onto that teenage side of me, satisfied with just a comfortable corner and a thick set of pages. not needing to watch hours upon hours of endless videos that are literally wasting my time. I always say to myself, oh if only I had more time, then I'd pick up reading again. finish that book I started one and a half years ago. oh if only I had that luxury.

yet when I do - I don't.

and I think it's because I'm too lazy to wipe off the dust and put my mind and imagination back into gear. which is sad. even to me. so here's to fewer days spent with a piece of metal overheating on my lap and more to days when my arms ache from holding up a book too long.