I have often written about my passion for reading, but never deepen the subject or the reasons why I love reading.
Reading was for me something salvific.
Since I was a child, I took refuge in reading, I remember the hobbit and Giobbe Covatta, the first things I read, instructed by my mother who, before sleeping, made me laugh a lot with the humor of Covatta.
I watched the movie "Matilda" and I thought "I look like her". I loved buying books of all kinds and for the holidays I always asked for a book.
I remember the fairy tales with particular affection, I loved reading Indian and Jewish books.
Reading became a necessity like food from a certain point in my life on, family difficulties pushed me to shut myself up more and more every day in books.
The big break came in the middle school, when I met and I fell in love with the fantasy genre.
First the lord of the rings then Harry Potter.
My fantasy was flying at that time and I read a lot, I wrote, I made imaginary adventures where elves, wizards, witches and monsters were protagonists.
I lived in that world, in the memories I perceive it as real even though it was only the result of imagination, but it was so fervent that I remember more the imagined world than the real one.
Vague memories of bullying in the middle with me that I was closing to read Ron and Harry.
And I imagined a life where there were no schools and bullets, just woods, magic and endless possibilities.
And then I grew up and the gothic period came when I was basking in the poems of Baudelaire and beside the bed I kept Lovecraft and Anne rice.
Then my head was composed of melancholy thoughts, vaguely languid and my readings followed these mental spirals.
After adolescence, the passion for reading has never left me, I started the university and the long hours on the train were entirely dedicated to reading, classics, fiction, essays, I devoured everything, except the books for exams!
But in those of literature I was an ace, it cost me no effort the D 'Annunzio, from which I was inspired by messages of vehement lustful love towards the boyfriend of the era.
Then the work came and the time to read became less and less, siped a few pages before bed and collapsed exhausted on the couch.
And I missed it and it lacks the time dedicated to reading, a love like that I will never have it, the emotion of turning the pages, the pleasure of discovery, being transported in another universe, in the mind of another person, all this is simply priceless.
Reading is for me now a fleeting pleasure that I taste in the remnants of time and from which as a drug addict I can not wait to return.
Another dose of words please!
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