Reading fills a certain emptiness. It fills the hollow hole in your gut, in your heart, and in your head.
But, it also creates a feeling of empitness.
It's this vicious cycle of never ending bliss and torment.
It's as if the first book you ever read slipped its greedy hands deep inside you and tore out your soul.
But you keep reading, searching for bits of your being in the books or novels you find solace in.
And you hope by chance you will find a small slither of its ethereal existence. To feed your hunger for more. To quench your thirst of those delicious flavors of words that make your stomach putter.
So, you continue collecting as many of the pieces you can find in your internal bucket.
Only to find out your bucket is not really a bucket, but a colander.