cherry blossoms out of japan

passion fades

my reading chair made me feel devastated when my parents put it to the streets. the cold metallic base and its strange tickling noises would be dearly missed. i read for hours on that chair. we went on so many journeys together.

we had ordered a new one to take its place. one that wasn't torn up already. but i missed my chair and the reading that went with it. so i just sat down where it used to be and opened yet another story. the floor was now my reading spot.

my life used to be all about reading. i dreamed of writing my own book. i'd finish a four hundred pages in less than a day. i'd promise to myself that yes, you will finish that enormous book you've been willing to read for ages, even if it takes four months. nothing could stop me. fifteen books in a series? not a problem! you've read this title three times already? you bet your ass i'll still end up crying. 

then the storm.

i had never stopped reading a school book halfway. i always took it upon myself to finish it, no matter if i was bored out of my mind or if the story was just awful. i'd always reach the last page, the last word, the final period. this semester, i stopped reading a mandatory story thirty pages before the end. as much as it felt empowering to be reckless and go against my rules, it just gave me this hard truth about passion. it fades.

my father was obsessed with golf. kept buying new whatever-they're-called silver sticks to play with. (i'm too lazy to google translate it. i'll go about my laziness somewhere later.) for years he'd never miss a day on the greens. the year after, nothing. got invited to play with friends, still stayed home. his whole life gravitated around this minuscule white sphere. how could it happen like this? like nothing?

he realized he didn't want to play anymore. i didn't realize i stopped reading for years. i kept presenting myself as an avid reader, all the while i didn't bother going to the library anymore. the librarian knew my name, first year of high school. i went by once a week. suggested book to buy. discovered authors. 

reading was everything to me, since i was young. how can something that shaped me all my youth just go away like that? why did it have to leave me?

my favourite books are on the shelves of my room. none have moved in over a year. i look at the titles every day. i wonder who gets to take people's happiness away from them, without their knowledge. still, i can't grab a new one and start the story. it doesn't work anymore. the words are all faded now.