I met you first, you're the realist, the logical one. The one who'd built walls as high as the skyscrapers in your books. You dwell in the symphonies from philosophy to science. The curiosity in you seeks the truth in everything. Because of your intellect, you believe that you are functioning in the best way possible. You can get stubborn, you find it hard to accept things that go against your way. You're fierce, yet sometimes scary, because of your authoritativeness. You once told me you took pride in your power to manipulate, to control. You love to share with me your credentials, like how you were always the best reader or the top-selling product back in the days. But it is always how you used to reign in the past that makes me wonder about "how about now". You are cold, structured, systematic. You gave me countless lessons, through strict deliverance, making sure that I learn. It felt like you had known me since forever when you have countless data to dissect me.
I'm a type, a label, a "something", always "something". You correct me all the time, keeping me in check, making sure that I'm always moving forward despite anything. You are that one good thing, but then again, what's missing?
Then you came along, and whisk my life away. The one who swayed from the yellow brick road. You're the nerdy homebody that I won't have met if not for our dreams. You appeared to me like magic, through the elemental circle and we're bound by a contract ever since. Perhaps it is the sadness in us, you thrive in books of tragedy, alongside with poetry and fantasy; hence the magic. You're the kind of walking contradiction who have a permanent love-hate relationship with horror books as you cuddle up by your rocking chair in the wee hours of the night, seeking refuge from the warmth of the hot chocolate whilst letting the words descend you to darkness. Our time is seemingly short, but it made me felt like I'd known you our previous lives. You're like the fire to her ice, the song of flame that danced with warmth in the middle of the night while we exchange life stories. You're the one who would retell me tales of the knight and how he reclaimed the land, not forgetting the spooky lore of the sirens and the bodies that washed up upon the shore after.
The "ding" of the bell jot me back to reality as I stood between you two. Little did I know I'll be in this situation, between both of you, having to make a choice. I found myself standing in the middle of the aisle as I ran both of my hands across both sections of the bookshelves on 2 sides.
Fiction, and Non-Fiction; which one should I choose?