books

Books make time stretch. When I read a book, the minutes turn to words and the seconds turn to words. A hundred words is used to compile a minute, a thousand letters is used to compile a second. Time stretches around me.

I do not dislike reading, but I dislike books. My room lacks a shelf, so books have no home there. They are spread apathetically on the floor, taking up more space than they need to. It’d be easier if they were all crammed neatly into a white bookshelf, their pages safe and sound. But because I hate books, I do not offer them this happiness. They are instead thrown around like burdens, faces pressed into hard wooden floor, growing dusty and stiff.

If I were to open one of these books, perhaps they’d grant me something. A wish, a memory, an enlightenment. My dislike for books outweigh my like for reading, so I stay away. Still, oftentimes my thoughts wander to these books that take up unnecessary space, their presence mocking me. Mocking my addictions to video posts and sweet food. Mocking the built-up dust in my cupboard and the dirty wall mirror. It is because they mock that I do not like them. And it is because I do not like them that they mock me. See? Life is a loop. A loop of time that stretches and creaks. An unchanging, distant loop. An ant death spiral. A Klein bottle.

— attempt at emulating Han Yujoo’s writing style from The Impossible Fairytale