I spent so many hours in their world, and therefore it scares me how little I remember from all the plots and stories I`ve read. I have never been good at remembering things afterward, I cared more about the experience there and then. How it was to feel what they felt, how surprised I could be over certain ways to think, and how my heart would beat when something was dangerous. Emotions. They are still here. I don`t sit down to read, I just look at the covers and feel the emotions from the past tingling inside me.
It is so nice to see those books again. I couldn`t have brought back these memories and feelings on my own, no matter how hard I tried. I needed to see them physically to remember. I remember how I read a bit, put it down, and the happiness when I had time to sit down with it again. The sad stories, the horror storries and the romantic stories, they were all urging me to continue, to find out how it all would end.
It has been so many years. I still read my stories, especially biographies and nonfiction. I open the chest of history and look at it`s organs. I examine it, still, and while doing it I also realize how precious little time we have. How many stories will I hear, before I die? How many times will my heart feel joy when someone find their prince charming? How much rage will be motivating me because I hear stories about abuse and suffering? I need to dive in it, and I need to feel. But sometimes I must also remind myself that my own story needs content. It needs feelings and people and thoughts. It needs insights, hurts and happy endings.
Where am I right now? Still sitting and waiting for my family in the home where I grew up. Soon my two small (energetic) brothers will fill the rooms with laughter and babbling. I love it and I love them. And maybe I will find my own love, soon? Maybe in some years times it will be me who looks at our children, and feel happiness swell in my chest? I am ready to grab my story, lift it up and carry it with me whereever I go.