Reading. A way for my world to intertwine with another without leaving the comfort of a warm bed, socks covering my cold toes as my fingers turn the pages of the newest hardcover secret. My eyes burn with exhaustion, yet I continue and I become the only awake body in the early morning hours. My eyes travel through worlds of wonder and familiarity as I find myself lost in its ways. They soak in each letter and word and sentence and paragraph and page as my mind follows along with the characters acting through my head.
They dance through my mind and I become accustomed to knowing their thoughts, interjecting my own into the story even though they will never hear them. These fictional, made-up people are real in my mind and I picture their movements as narrated through the pages. Their emotions infuse with mine as I experience each strand of hope and despair and pain with them. We become one.
The soft spine of a cover meant to be hard, the dry rustle of printed pages. The faint smell of new life breathing in your gentle hands as words flash through your moving gaze. The way they fit on different levels of a shelf; how they accumulate to show the passing interests of the reader. How they sit, unmoving and dusty until pulled to existence again when ready. They stand colorful, one an inch taller or shorter than the next, but each hiding the truth inside.
I love how the pages hold an undiscovered secret waiting to be found as soon as the key is unlocked. How a new world is yet to be seen. I enjoy how nothing seems fake or forced or limited; the author is beyond all limitations. I like that flying brooms and evil wizards are expected, that “tattoos” can really be sources of supernatural power, that a “fight to the death” can mean more than a fight to the death. But at the same time, I love that I sometimes read from my world. I can live in the same world yet see a different side of it, look through someone else’s eyes for a change.
I love the moments that create a reaction. A gasp. A sharp intake of breath. An out-loud expression to cope with what my eyes have not physically seen. A surprised shudder, an excited squeal, a silent tear. A physical manifestation of my thinking, an inaccurate attempt to show my reaction. I respect authors who can make a puddle seem like an ocean, a single flower seem like a field, but also those who can stir emotion, unnoticed and unaware.
I long for the times when a book sparks, when I find myself at the end of a journey and no path left. When a day consists entirely of traveling through a life that isn't mine but at the same time, somehow is. When I reach the end and feel tied to the character, as if my life will end the same time theirs does. The moment I close the cover and place it back into its precisely chosen spot causes a strange call for more, for a revival only an author can concoct.
What happens now? I think as I sit in silence, unsure of how to act now that it’s over. A part of it carries with me as I notice the way my world works in conjunction with the others. How buses are really broom sticks and pencils are really wands. This is what inspires and excites. What illuminates and innovates.
And no matter how poorly constructed or superfluous or overdramatized, I can take something away. I can discover something new, something unexplored and unimaginable. All from the comfort of my warm bed.
