Love in it's purest form.

Yeah, title is super corny. Pay no heed.

Note: This post is about the love towards books.

How do you know that you have fallen in love with books?

Is it the knots in your stomach that suddenly forms when you start to slowly, without haste unwrap the plastic wrappings of a new, fresh of the shelf book?

Is it the utter disregard of your surroundings once you have begun to read one?

Or is it the sheer joy to just be in a room full of cabinets stacked with books, or the dread that fills the heart when you see a page of a book torn?

Is it the feeling of dismay once you actually realise that a book is coming to an end and you force yourself to stop reading at a normal phase but digest each word slowly and with an ounce of effort?

Is it the feeling of hate and abhorrence once you realise that a book is not to your liking but you force yourself to read it till the end; knowing that if you set it down, you may never again sleep in peace?

Perhaps it is the utter joy and bliss that you experience once you realise that you have found a perfect book for you?

Is it all of these mingled into one?

Or does none of these count?

Does it really matter then? Is a book in reality just a few pages bound together, in which there is nothing magical about it? Or is the truth hidden from our mortal eyes, forever we shall be doomed to ponder about these matter?

Does a book in fact hold the keys to eternal glory, of magnificence and of immortality? Does it hide the fact that one could swim through vast oceans, cross mountains of flames, fight monsters and abominations to save one's true love just by reading?

I realise I could fucking care less.

I kneel and I am content.