Ever since I finished The Hunger Games trilogy, I’ve been sucked so violently into the world of books that you could say I was tossed into a literary arena, books trying to tempt me into forming an alliance only to rip my heart out at the end. Or, seeing as I’m from a career district, straight up coming up to my face and shouting, “READ ME BIT*@!!!”
Dear unfinished books,
You are sh-tty little barnacles of guilt on my day and I hate you.
I carried you home from the bookstore, giddy with your potential, your possibility. For 25 bucks and just a few hundred pages, your seductive cover art and zesty blurbs — Illuminating! Transcendent! Polarizing! — made me think that I might become a better scholar, writer, and human. How could I pass up a chance at illumination? How could I not transcend? I conjured up imaginary masses of people who would never read the collection of words under my arm. Shame on them! I will give them verbal whiplash at parties with the knowledge I acquire from you.
Read the rest of the piece and see if any of the thoughts resonate in your mind. They sure did for me!
How many books do you have on your reading list?
via Thought Catalog