Ah, sweet, sweet betrayal. Once, my heart was as passionate for as much as it was devoted to–a printed book’s bindings, the fresh smell of the printed ink as well as the acidic, sour smell fermented out of its age. Once I caressed the cover of a book, languished over its pages, nearly swooning–I swore I would be faithful. I swore that surely, a book could only be defined this way. How could a book be a book without its pages, orderly and beautifully bound, woven together by words–sentences, continuing like a stream of consciousness, soaring through line after line until a prologue becomes a story’s ending–when the very last page is flipped, the cover closed–the book’s purpose is completed, fully cherished–and read.
No, a book cannot exist in any other way. Any other way is simply blasphemy. An outrage. An unacceptable disgrace. Oh, how I detested ereaders. How I loathed it with every fibre of my being.
However, I am sorry.
I did not know a heart could so quickly love another.
With only a glance, I was conquered. Overtaken by its charms. I was surprised. I did not know it possessed such power. Yes. A worthy opponent. Irresistible persuasion. As soon as I touched it buttons, my soul (and subsequently, my wallet), has been taken hostage.
I am very very sorry.
You were like an angel to me. Nourished me with words. Allowed me to feed on you, to satisfy my voracious hunger. But don’t get me wrong. I still love you. I love you very very much.
It’s just that–now I also love another.
I’m sorry. It wasn’t my fault. It was its ever-changing e-ink. The smooth, onyx, plastic cover. It offered me the entire literary public domain. It whispered to me and took me off-guard. I was feeble.
You’ve got to believe me, and don’t get angry with me, my dear, even though I’m reading Carmilla, for free, staring at a screen, pressing down the navigation pad instead of lifting pages with the tip of my fingers.
It really isn’t my fault.
I am, as most will say, possessed.
And therefore, I am not quite myself.