Books are like the ocean.
As you turn each page, you find yourself getting deeper and deeper into the waters. You find yourself trying to fight it, trying to stay afloat if the words are too coarse or hard to comprehend, but still you persevere and dive delving deeper into the story. You sometimes splash about in anger, sometimes find yourself floating along, sometimes swimming or treading water with anticipation, all the while never realizing you’ve left the sandy beach far behind. It is then that you begin to sink down into the story.
Then suddenly, you find yourself in a whirlpool of literature, words, sentences, fragments, characters crashing at you pulling you down deeper into the story choking you, filling you up as the pages swallow you whole. Each page turns, and before you realize it, the book has consumed you.
You’re sitting at the bottom of the ocean not having realized you were completely immersed the whole time. You cannot move, you cannot speak, you merely sit at the bottom of the ocean and let the words you’ve just read flow around you, flow through you, take you through its ebbs and flows, rocking you gently back and forth until you come to the conclusion that you’ve been consumed entirely and you cannot get out of the ocean with all the weight of the water, the words weighing you down.
And then as time passes, you rise out of the depths, but you’re never really out of the ocean. You’re merely standing with your feet in the sand, the waves constantly lapping at your feet. You feel the ripples constantly coming to you, washing over you as you reminisce about the depths, and wait until the next big wave comes and drags you down again.
theartofmadeline
annaxmalina
dededos
snowghoul
kaledo-art
