Passion. Hunger. Need.

I wake up and one motion I do –  a book I reach out for. Eyes still closed, I caress its cover, my door to imagination. The first thing in morning, the last thing at night. More than love. Sometimes an obsession. Reading is what gives me the drive, the motivation, the strive to live. Another world I submerge into. Hundreds of thousands of billions of ideas, of minds, of stories.  In some of them I may find just a teeny-tiny piece of useful information, others could read my mind and expose me head to toe, naked to them, as if they had been written for myself and only me in the world. Good books tell us what we already know but hesitate to confess – our deepest concerns, fears, loves and hopes. Our selves.  

I dream about libraries and the soft, vanilla-like scent of books, centuries talks about life and the adventure of living and loads of dedicated to writing souls to show you the way.

I do not care about night clubs or posh meeting places, as long as I had a nice reading, blanket (and a cuppa tea).

Take books away from me  and I will feel lost and confounded. Alone. Deserted.

Bring them back and I will breathe and smile again.

What does reading mean to you?

Shhh, I am taking a book,

so please write silently