Books

"I love books. I cherish them, adore them, collect them, and devour them. They’re a sustaining life source that is neither necessary nor particular, yet has seemingly become the darkness that creeps up my walls, covers the ceilings and licks at the candle flames flickering, flickering in the window’s silhouettes. And I dream of the books, of the stories and characters and memories they create and hold. I dream of watching it all - like a movie played on black screens running rich with thick blood coursing through small veins and membranes.. My biology was never anything to be desired, but my imagination could run laps around the world before my feet could take a step onto the track. These dreams were vivid, concious memories crafted from air and energy. But never once was I able to become a character - never. It was a dream within a dream, to be one of the characters that had the happy ending, or had the quirky trait that turned them into the villain or made them soar above the crowds as the perfect hero was the dream I desired to dream of. It’s the same desire I feel when I watch a film. To be one of those characters: perfectly crafted and moulded with so much thought that they’re nothing short of perfect..

"But I’ve realized that to keep dreaming of becoming these characters would mean to loose yourself. No longer would you be the one that has had so much thought and consideration, no longer are you the one that holds the memories and creates the words that spin from lips perfect for kissing. You are a mutant of dreams from others minds that, also, race around the world before you can even blink a greeting at the morning dew. You become this jumbled pile of junk that has become nothing, because you wished to become someone, that is in fact, nothing. For those beautiful people, those perfect people, on those pages are nothing but dreams of energy and air. No, to become one of them is to implant ourselves in a book. And that is dreadfully horrid as there is no growth, no change and no spontaneity.

"We have lost the gift of words people before once spoke with grace. No longer can we describe the beauty of a flower, or the color of a rose to someone who has lost the gift of sight just as we, ourselves have lost the gift of sound. We must search pages and pages to find a description from times long gone and call it a “quote” for memory’s sake to share with friends, laugh, and then continue on. Contemplation or appreciation no longer remains, and the play of words on the tongue with the humor of a jester lies dead in the pages of books categorized as romance and tongue-twisters, laying dormant on shiny store shelves.

"We dream of living a life worth filming, of quoting, of dreaming of. But how are we sure that others do not dream of something we already have? We have become accustomed to wishing for something else, something more, when we don’t even appreciate the beauty that surrounds us every day. To turn a corner and see another piece of the world - to see another tree bloom, and then die the next day, or watch a plant grow from something as simple as water.. These simple moments are lost to so many.

"I love books. I cherish them, adore them, collect them, and devour them. They’re a sustaining life source that is neither necessary nor particular, yet has seemingly become the shadows on forgotten shelves, collecting the dust of days passed. And I once dreamt of the books, of the stories and characters and memories they created and held; but no longer do I dream of being them. Instead, I open my eyes, greet the morning with a blink at the morning dew, shake of the ice and dust from yesterday’s evening, and greet the new morning with a smile and watch the sun rise, enjoy the new sun and the shadows and colors it paints across rolling fields and peaking mountains. I caress the flowers that brighten my window, kiss the flames that brighten the shadows, and spin my own words with the energy and air from my imagination into tales and images that I have created. I become my own character, enjoying the growth and memories from each day, occasionally sending a smile at those books I once held dear. And sometimes, I’ll read them, with a smile and a laugh before putting them down to once again enjoy the sunsets and warmth of tea and blankets before turning off the light and watching the stars dance with my dreams, the wind singing me to sleep."

Sometimes, after I’ve let everything out, it feels like nothing is mine - like I’ve lost everything. The emptiness is consuming - like darkness that slithers into bedrooms with the setting sun, framing the silhouette of the window on bare walls. It’s like time never wants to pass, and although I know the morning will come and all will be forgotten, the clock in my hand stops and refuses to start. Air disperses and sounds quiet. After the adrenaline dries out and the shaking calms from my hands, there is nothing left but silence.

I wrote this earlier today, and it feels like slowly I'm spiraling down some deep hole where it's just dark and quiet. It's nostalgic, and I don't like it.