I’m having an affair.
With many.
So many, that I’ve actually lost count.
I’m having an on-going affair that my husband is fully aware of and could really care less about.
And I’m in love.
I’m in love with….
Words
And it’s an affair for life.
I’ve always been acutely aware of my need for words. Whether they are to be written, read or said.
I crave them.
If I don’t have a book to read at night, I panic.
And the smell of a bookstore...don't even get me started! Like a slice of freshly baked heaven.
Whenever I feel the word urge - I write. If not, I open a book and let the words fill me. That’s just how it works for me.
Though only in black and white, words are the color of life.
(That line sounded really good when I was drinking out of my "fancy-glass").
And, to me, nothing is as spectacular as being taken in by a captivating author. Pulled willingly into a vivid world created solely from the depths of their brilliant imaginations.
An author that makes me feel, see and anticipate.
No man more viral, no woman more beautiful no story more poignant.
I often find myself playing back my affairs to remember in my head, but I will always anticipate a new affair as if it were the first.
And I’m not ashamed to say that being a whore never felt so good!
Who's in the brothel with me? (-:
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