Reading addiction 

I like reading. I mean I like reading a lot. I remember how my autumn before I moved to the Netherlands was all about reading. Sometimes it is harmful, because once I start, I cannot stop. I shut the doors around me, and both literally and metaphorically being in my corner finishing the books. I have not got a time to redo that vibe of autumn again, also because of this isolation. Reading helps my own self not wandering to my real trouble life; as it is busy exploring the fictional life the book is building up. Another thing about reading is, it touches some buttons inside my head. Every time I am sucked into a reading time, there are so many pauses I have to stop, to breath in these descriptions in the book, relate or reflect them onto my life. Sometimes it is harder than it sounds, the feeling those pauses create.

Then, I start to feel like writing down stuff. Those buttons, when being touched, began a stream of words demanded me to let it all out to the real word, on a blank page or a blank document on laptop or a blank note on the phone. Like right now. I rarely pay attention to how my style seems to be like. The small details if forming a sentence, of linking the dots, do not matter as much as which word will convey the best the flow stream. So I tend to let them all out, I might read them again later or some other days, polish them a bit more if I wish and once I am brave enough, I will turn it into a blog post.

I finished the first short story of this book: “A girl with flammable skirt” – Aimee Bender. The chapter is named “the Remember“. And if not for my friend (who gave me the book as a gift on my bday) warning me at first about how strange the author’s writing style might seem, I would be really confused even after first few lines. But I hold back my prejudice, and tried to chew in her words in my own sense. I found myself somewhere in that story.

A story of a woman, letting go of a man; because along the way being together, she cannot realise him anymore. She let him go, and hope that one day he comes back in his original being and knocks on her door. Now, these are not the exact words used in the story. These are my own interpretation. If you decide to check out the book on your own, you might look at it differently. That marks the third great thing about stories and books—they are kaleidoscope. There exists no perfect true meaning, but the one fitting the most to a certain reader. I hope you know what a kaleidoscope is, I used to love that toy when I was a little kid. It was like a magical toy to a kid; since that is one way telling your kid that the world can be full of colourful small things to appreciate, and hope for.

Anyway, the story, made me questioning about how sometimes two people ruined each other self throughout the time staying with each other. They found a reason to begin with, to stay with, despite other people they might have met. There is a click, a connection. Then, things start to change and maybe one of them turn to be someone the other does not recognise. It is not happiness anymore. It is being stuck in a cage, in which they are dragging each other to go down together. I think it is rather sad. I don’t believe in “the one”; if you might tell me because that person is not meant to be. I think the concept is weird. I used to believe though; like everything happened for a reason, and so things don’t work out with one person because of the next one coming. Now I change my opinion. I don’t actually have any reasons; or at least that is what I assume. I just change, because i don’t like the way that belief shapes you: you just let go of one thing and you tell yourself that it is okay, since that has been arranged by some strong force in life and you wait for the next sign.

So then, this makes the story sad to me, to my own sense. But it also gives me a sense about “remembering”.

Feature image: Kate Williams


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