Dont read this, this is just for stories i want read

petrichor

He loved words.

This simple pleasurable feeling always bubbled deep in George's chest while reading. Loved being presented with multitudes of different texts in school, and in his free time of course.

He also quite enjoyed writing with artistic merit.

How he could make the letters form – come together to create and portray different colours of emotions he usually wouldn't be able to convey with his mouth.

There was a difference however, of reading for pleasure in a way that the pages would drag him in his own little world. Where he could sit for hours stuck in a fantasy place made out of ink and freshly pressed paper.

To where he would have to analyse the style, language and meaning. Go in-depth into the different forms of literature.

Sighing as he walked up the steps to the university, sounds of his soles hitting the concrete echoing.

Vehicles passing by almost deafening. He guessed his life will mostly consist of that now – consist of deconstructing and analysing words, getting taught how to get a critical viewpoint of all writing styles rather than just the ones he enjoyed to read, or whatever.

He moved to Florida from England to study English literature. No surprises there. No one in his life was shocked by the decision either. His mother, of course, was a little apprehensive over having his boy move across the oceans.

His father on the other hand didn’t bat an eye.

He regretted his clothing slightly now, feeling salt start forming on his hairline pushing through the glass entrance.

His father was never around much. And when he was around it was usually pissed off and drunk – always this red anger glinting behind his eyes as he spat venom down on him or mother.

It was better telling people he grew up without a father he decided young, better than telling how his father figure was a twat.

George didn’t think much of the man though. He always told himself you can’t miss what you never had. In this case, he can't miss having a father in his life, if the man never was a father in the first place.

Maybe those trains of thought were unhealthy, and maybe, the troublesome upbringing prompted the dainty brunette to start exploring literature.

Reading to escape the real world, to fly away in some fantasy place made of letters.

Projecting his experiences in poetry, telling his story through made-up characters.

Regardless, It all led up to this moment right here; walking up to the receptionist.

Wow, he was really doing this.

They say studying English Literature will give you a better understanding of the world around you. Maybe one day he will achieve that.