My mind is going at a high-speed, wanting to gush every word stored in my vocabulary. I suddenly have a lot to say about everything, as if I’ve just been endowed with eternal wisdom. But ironically too, I can’t keep up with all the words that are coming out in all directions and keep them organized into something that makes actual sense.
I honestly don’t get to read as often as I wished. It’s even a great achievement for me to finish a 474-paged novel in two days, which I just did, a first time in history. Finishing it in one is yet a record to break.
But this is what finishing a book, both slowly and quickly, does to me. I don’t think speed matters because, either way books contain words that are so magnificently weaved together, they seem to conjure the litterateur in me (notice the word choice? 😂) and infect me with verbal diarrhea. It inspires me to write about the book or write a book of my own, as if I’m qualified in any level.
It is overwhelming, making me restless, but also alive.
But now that one sleepless night I spent devouring a book is taking its toll, letting the desire for sleep slowly engulf me, pushing my eyelids lower and lower. I fear I would lose the disease in my sleep; I fear it would be snatched away in the middle of the night if I don’t stay on guard.
I hope it will not. I hope it stays as I have important things to tell. I have many reviews and critiques, memories and wishes, and way too many drama I wish to write about. I hope it stays until weaving words together becomes second nature to me. It is a disease I’d love to suffer from eternally.
For now, I think I got myself covered with an entire list of books I have yet to finish. I have the pills to keep myself high.