Forgive me for talking about books all the time, but they're such an integral part of my existence. My drug of choice; the fuel that keeps me going when everything else falls apart; my comfort and solace and only true company, ever since I learned to read. You may think I'm some kind of freak. I'll take it as a compliment.

At some point of my life I actually stopped reading, a fact that now sounds hard to believe, even to me. I guess I had no time for books, or rather, no energy at all. Other thoughts kept me occupied. And, imagine, I avoided all solitary activities, anything I could not share with a certain someone.

This was soon restored back to normal, of course. Like before, I now long for these moments of superficial isolation and deep companionship; foreign worlds of the mind and their strange, yet mostly welcoming, inhabitants.

When a novel ends, I get withdrawal symptoms. A situation negotiated best by long but good fantasy series- though, sadly, even these have an end. If left without a book for a while, my defenses are temporarily shattered. I'm exposed to reality's vicious attacks, with no shelter, nothing to go home to in the evenings.

Forced to move on, I get my self a new specimen. Initially I hesitate to enter its alien universe, overwhelmed by waves of nostalgia for the familiar setting I've left behind. I take it in my hands, look at it suspiciously. But by the time it's over, it will probably feel like home.