The door opened, and in came the light.

I love to read. I love the stories. The what ifs, the hows, the whys.

At the same time however, I hate them. I despise them, especially the well written, thought-provoking ones. The ones that make you wonder, that make you question your way of thinking, your way of life, and even your existence. I dont read all that often. Not counting the boring pointless novels we’re forced to read in school, I’ll read about 3 or 4 books a year. I guess I find them to be a waste of valuable time.

But it seems, to me, the few times I read is like a slap in the face. Before, Im content with everything. Im content with my views, my life. And then comes the book, and then things change. Im forced to see things differently, view things differently. It’s strange, and kind of stupid really, that books can do these things.

The one that started it all, was Fahrenheit 451. That one was actually assigned to me in school a month or two ago. While reading it, I realized how true it was. It was so true, in fact, that it was frightening. Im not going to explain it, because frankly after prodding it and picking it apart so much in school, Im quite sick of it. Only people who’ve read it and truly understood would know what Im talking about.

The latest one Ive read, the one I finished 20 minutes ago,  was Interview With the Vampire. I got it two days ago with a gift card I recieved for christmas. My brother has had this strange fascination with vampires lately, and since I had no desire to search for a book Id more than likely throw aside after the first few pages, I decided to get one for him. I began reading it, however, and couldn’t put it down.

That one made me wonder, alot. About what am I to do with my life. Ive thought about it many times before, oh yes Ive thought about it. It was that thinking that I believe almost led me to my doom last year. My pessimistic mind had realized I was to have a typical existence, like almost everyone else in the world. I would wake up in the morning, work, survive, go to sleep, repeat, repeat, die. That didn’t seem very appealing to me. When I stopped thinking, stopped caring about what was happening or what was going to happen, I became much happier. (Mind you, this was before I read Fahrenheit)

This book however, made me think about that again. Honestly, I began to get scared, because those thoughts came back, the same ones that spawned that terrible pathetic bout of hopelessness and depression I went through. But the book did something else as well. It made me realize how little I appreciate things. How I take every thing for granted. I hear about that often, but never really understood it until now.

Eating dinner tonight, I thought about how it would be to never be able to eat again. Sitting in my bedroom, I thought of what will happen when I die. It made me sad to think about dieing tomorrow, about all the things I would never get to do. All the things I would miss. Thinking about that made me suddenly, despretly, want my friends next to me, all of them. Especially Frank and Patrick. It made me want to hold my dog, play the sims, paint a picture. Do, and see, and hear, everything I love and take for granted. It was much like how I felt when Johnny died. Only then it was sadness not for me, but for him. For everything he would never get to do and enjoy. That happened with Stephen as well.

By tomorrow, the awe and inspiration Im feeling will probably be gone. I’ll quickly fall back into my usual habits and such, until the next book, which I will undoubtedly try getting as soon as possible. Because the kid went to find Lestat, and I want to know what happens next.

Darn you, damn cliffhangers.

Im listening to a song by Blue October, called Tommorrow. It reminds me so much of that book somehow. Its actually a bit disturbing…no, really disturbing…