Books! Ahhh … books!
One of the reasons I have blurry eyeballs is due to my incessant obsession with consuming words as a child.
Yet despite my passion, occasionally months and months go by and the only literary intake I have made time for is through pixellated encapsulations of story, told in 500 words or less on a website.
And then – at long last – like a bucket of water poured onto a parched desert – a hardcover bound volume of pages and ink will cross my path and something will compel me to step away from my little vortex box of routine, and delve deeply into a complex, winding, meandering story.
There is just nothing like the woody, pulpy feel of turning pages beneath fingertips… the enveloping arc of character development … the all-consuming power of Story. In a portable package you can lug around.
This is my favorite addiction.
I come from a mother who always has a thick book in her clutches. I have been known to pull over to the side of the road while driving just to gulp down one last chapter. Or literally walk down the street with my nose buried in a good book, fearlessly facing the potential of bumping into any unfortunate passerby. **(ahem – Game of Thrones – ahem)**
Despite being an official Bookworm Speed-Reader my whole life, It had been months since my last book. (Strange how life happens sometimes, the thirst builds and builds, and then AT LAST! – the bliss of satiation) ….
I picked up a book yesterday and in intervals throughout the day, zipped through the entire 300 page novel.
It wasn’t that it was a good book, per se.
It wasn’t that it contained a gripping plotline or depth of character, or even stunning use of language.
But I knew it contained something for me – some nugget of self reflection that I needed in order to see myself clearly on its pages, and accept some aspect of my own experience.
I knew that. I felt it calling from inside of me. So I kept digging, and digging, page after page – enjoying the way word strands of images and emotions wrapped around my mind and tickled it ….until at last the paragraph arrived that I had been seeking.
And I recognized myself on the pages in full color.
And it nearly brought me to tears.
And then, although the hour was far too late, and my body was far too weary, I ploughed through to the very last page.
There is just nothing like that feeling. Of racing towards the culmination of metaphors and facts and stories and characters. Waiting for just how the author will wrap it up in a neat little bundle with a bow on top and compress the entire journey you just went on together into One. Last. Final. Synopsis. Sentence.
And when it finally delivers … it is like a gasp of autumn air after bursting up from the bottom of a lake, after far too long spent under water.
It is the exhausted triumph of reaching the summit of a craggy mountaintop after a full day climb. It is my personal bliss.
And at last, I slept. This is what happens after a good rousing awakening. We sleep like babies, and wake up, reborn.