Books

There are books that drain me; most do.

Most books vacuum energy, intrigue, interest, joy into their greedy, papery paws.

Well. Most studying books at least.

They are culprits of instigating mostly. Words that so often have pull in lyrics and prose now glaze my eyes over. You know those brain diagrams they show for psychological studies? I envision a winding, dark, colorless image for mine.

These are they that instigate distraction and boredom and exhaustion.

I hate a book that leaves me tired. A book that begs you to put it down and drags your lids in the direction of its inky type.

Hamartia.

It’s the perfect phrase, John. Arrogant. Serious. Fragile. Insecure. Any attribute that sums up one’s tragic flaw.

Little is more tragic than a book leaving you in apathy.

But there are books that make your insides race and soar and weep and tug. That call your name when you’re not around. Not to be confused with a smoker’s addiction that won’t quit, but instead more likened to the boy who will always have your heart. The books who connect with you, understand you, converse with you. The ones you can lose yourself in. They’ll never talk down to you, they’ll slow to your pace, they’ll remind you that reading is time well spent. I often am made to forget that reading is time well spent.