I Like Fluff.

Fluff. I like fluff.

Apparently.

The Twilight Saga, by Stephanie Meyer, is amazing. As you read the books, it feels real. It feels like you're reading this incredibly intense book full of non-stop action and deep thoughts. As you get closer to the last words on the last page of the last book, you feel as if the ultimate climax of this story would be the end, the last few paragraphs. Then as you close the book, you feel happy, as if you accomplished a great deal.

But then, the morning after hits.

All those words you read, all that intensity, all the promises made by the characters, all the lessons you've been taught by the book....turns out to be nothing more than fluff.

Fluff? You know, fluff. The kind that isn't all that significant. The kind that's used to stick in between the really important parts. The kind that you aren't supposed to like and just leave behind in the dust. That kind of fluff.

Doesn't it seem weird then, that I read four whole books of fluff...and absolutely loved it?

When I sat down and thought over everything, the book seemed to be filled with nothing but a simple love story. The plot wasn't phenomenal. The writing wasn't unbelievably great. The characters seemed more like charactures. And yet, somehow, I couldn't seem to get enough of the books.

The fluffy books.

It's a weird feeling, finding out you like fluff.

But not a bad one.