Reading is one of my favorite forms of escapism. I lose myself to the words on each page and let the inner dialogue suffuse through my soul. It may appear to just be some words on paper bound together, held by my hands but the literal description of what a book is, does not capture even the smallest glimpse of what a book does.
Each book is alive. A journey. A place I never believed possible. Travelling through time and space beyond the ability of physics and the imagination. For a few hours I shed my skin and become someone else.
As my eyes roam across the words, without my consciousness knowing I seem to slip into a cinema. I am no longer reading, but seeing the words play out before me. My imagination so vivid as to make the words dance and sing, each with their own voice and color.
Books to me are a way to leave behind the pain and heartache I so often feel. The dreary days of stress and boredom that drags me down through the world of the mundane.
At 30 years old I still curl up in bed with a flashlight each night and read myself to sleep. Covers pulled up close, my cat cuddled near, as I shine my light into a new adventure that follows me into my subconscious. My mind picking up and placing me into the plot after my eyes close and I drift off to sleep.
There as I fall asleep. There when I finally awake.
In life I have my own little library. In this day and age of electronics, kindles, and e-Readers, I still love my books. I’ve heard all the arguments and the wonder that comes with this technology but there’s just something I can’t replace in my books. I like the look of my shelves filled with volumes and tomes of places I’ve been, gone, and seen. It may seem silly, but it’s something I simply cannot bring myself to give up.