Words bounce from the pages and filter into my mind like images in motion,
and everything around me suddenly stops.
I am in a place I don’t even know existed, but it’s beautiful.
There is wind without wind. There are mighty dragons around me. I’m walking through the mental turmoil with Frankenstein, or I am running with Elizabeth Bennet to Netherfield. The flight in ‘The Book Thief’ is one that I took and Max is my angel too. I’m the tension in Lés miserablés and the Child in Blake’s Songs.
I have also been Lochinvar, and abducted a bride.
I also am listening to the nightingale and wondering if this is a dream or am I asleep?
I was the kite and the mud and the journey in “Kite runner” and when Hassan died, I died too.
I’m fighting the case in “How to kill a mockingbird” while I sneak into my neighbours house too.
I run away like Margo and I find myself a miracle like Landon. I also am Iago, plotting a plan that will unfold like a perfectly folded paper, when left loose.
I’m also the message in a bottle found. I’m the letters in “Colour Purple” and I’m punished like Shylock.
I’m Frodo and I’m on a quest while I also am Thorin waiting to take back my home.
I live in the shire like Bilbo does, a complete Misanthrope, and I relish and savour the world as differently as Gus.
All this, I am, when I’m right here. In one spot, in one corner of the world, like a spec of dusk floating somewhere, yet paralysed.
All this, I am, when I’m reading.
When the world embrace me and take me into another dimension where reality is just the past or somewhere else entirely. Obscure, I know, yet
I am all this when I’m static in one corner, huddled up with a book and a cup of hot coffee
and people ask me “Why do you read so much?” -Marlyn Pereira