The Magic Of Books

I have just finished reading a book.

It was a very good book. There was magic and intrigue, mystery and murder, romance, betrayal and wonder. It was an all round adventure and I loved it.

The only issue I have is that none of it is real. I get so caught up in the lives these books hold; I want nothing more than to fall through the pages and find myself in the midst of it. Finishing a book like that leaves me cold.

More than anything, I want an adventure like that. Minus the betrayal and murder perhaps!

I know that part of the charm of such books is that, because they are not real one can allow oneself to be utterly swept away by it all. In reality, it is likely we would all exercise more caution and less haste in embarking on such journeys.

But still my heart yearns for it.

God damn these authors and their ability to create a world of words so beguiling I long to be a part of it. And bless them for their gifts because I love the way they can paint these pictures in my head.

Even if it breaks my heart that they are pure fiction.


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