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Saturday, 20 January 2018

It is an old and common saying to say that novels, books, stories, are the best way to escape reality. To forget your problems and sadnesses for a moment. I have always been told that, and books have always been a safe shelter to me, in my darkest days. Since I am in Amsterdam, I do read even more than before. I need to kill time, and also to forget about my anxieties and constant sadness. So I read. Many different types of novels, as you gave witnessed with my book reviews. However, since few reads, I realized that this shelter was not so safe anymore. I found myself being nostalgic. Nostalgic about a life I will never have, nostalgic about the life of book's characters. Nostalgic about stories I will never live myself, solely through the pages of a bended book. How can we ever be nostalgic about eras we never lived, places we've never been to? How can we feel so much for somber we never met? All those questions turned in my head round and round those last few days, as I was reading The God of Small Things, and holding in my tears. Is my life too empty? I however feel like I feel far enough in reality, why I am then falling into the trap of those amazing writers? Why I am letting myself being drenched from the readings? Oh well, I get it. We always crave for what we can have. We always want to live a life that does not belong to us. We want to escape reality. 



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