Sometimes I read something and I hurt– genuine, excruciating, exquisite pain. I stare at the screen/book/letter/notebook and feel the tears fall, hot and heavy. I sit and think, I savour every moment. Those sharp words that jab through my heart– temporary madness, temporary hurt.
I read about love and love in the time of cholera. Of exotic, beautiful men and awkward ones with golden mongoose saviours. Of lightness of being and being infinite. I've read about secrets and (little) princes and (non sparkly) vampires. Of people deciding to die. Of life and the end of it, and the progression of living through loss and death.
And I weep for all of them.
These things I will never know or touch and I feel for all of them.
And this is why I read, this is why I write.