I love books, but it's been a while since I've read a really good one. I love people too.
People are like books. Yes, they all have their own story and what not, but frankly, that is not where I want this to go. People are like books. You enter a bookshop, hopeful, you go round and round, and then again and again, and you search. You search for something meaningful, for something that you are willing to spend time on without losing too much of yourself in the process. Your eyes, they fall on that one particular book. No, the cover is not that good looking. You're not that shallow. You don't judge a book by its cover (I'm sure I've heard that phrase somewhere before). You open it, gently, as if your life depended on it. Then, before you start reading the blurb, you smell it. You don't know why you do the things you do, but you do them anyway.
But that's not really the point here. Blurbs lie; they make you think that the book you are about to purchase is the best book ever to be written. Wrong. Because then, you go home and you start reading. Months later, and you're stuck reading that very same book. You thought it would get better halfway through. You thought it would start to make sense by now. Think again. Then, try again. Not because you enjoy doing it, but rather because 'half finished' has never been your style. But maybe it should be. Because if the ending is just as painful as you suffering throughout the whole book, then maybe it's just not worth it. But the thing is, how would you know if the ending is good or not if you never bother finishing it?
But now you finished it. Now you know. It's not you. It's the book. Maybe it's a little bit you. Maybe you just lost interest. No, no, it's the book. It has to be. Because blurbs lie.
But sometimes they don't. Sometimes, books can surprise you. It's what I love about them.
It's also what I used to love about people.