A Multitude of Affairs

It was not so long ago that I fell in love with a new book every day.

The smell of printed pages, the absolute peace of mind, the idea that opening this magnificent thing could transport me to exactly where I wanted to be – I was in love with all of those things, I think.

And then somehow, the devouring of books became a chore. I am not sure exactly how; possibly I'd tasted one too many of these modern, under-ripened, chemical-pumped stories. Nonetheless, it became something I did more from habit than from enjoyment. And later it was not even habit that was holding me, but something reminiscent of the same. The memory of habit, if you will. Reading was to keep up a persona. To convince people that I was the same bluntly fascinating person I used to be – even when I myself did not believe it.

For a while now I have wondered about the reasons behind my sudden disinterest, and only just now has it occurred to me that maybe I was never in love with any of these books at all. Perhaps it was mere lust or fascination that I held; not love, but a multitude of affairs. And now I have grown too weary of my affairs to pretend that they are love.