Literature has always been a distinctive part of my life: an escape route out of the dull, grey world. The only thrilling experience- even more than a roller coaster ride- in my mundane everyday life, in which I'm incessantly running in a hamster wheel that takes me no where.
Every time I open a hard cover of a novel and the first page opens up to me, I'm immediately surrounded by the aroma of exciting adventure; completely different from the one I've experienced in a yet another book. Adrenaline shoots through my veins as I turn the pages, submerged in the anticipation for each and every ventures that unfold before me.
As I approach the end of the novel, utter disappointment destroys me, but I turn yet another page almost like an addict. Then I flip the last page, sighing deeply as if I've returned from death awakening into the reality.
I'm lost in thought, reminiscing about the past journey on my big, red sofa beside the fireplace, on my right, a cold hot chocolate that once steamed with heat. But then I pick up another thick book, and feeling the leathery texture of the cover, I open it up as if opening a treasure box full of rarest jewels.
Another adventure has begun.
