Open me a book and carry me into its reaches, whisk and frisk deep into its words that dance in front of my eyes, swirling and twirling into images, reassuring, questioning, soothing and enlightening, trailing sparks of nuances that cling to memory long after the page is turned.
By books we escape, by books we are found, by books we drown and resurface among the bindings.
A book is a book is a book is a book. As children, we delve into them as eager as adventurers. As adults we return to them wiser, clearer and perhaps with a bit of magic lost. By reading we find our writing. By absorbing we find our ink.
And therein lose ourselves again and discover yet another. In writing we lay bare what our tongue dare not or choose not to utter. Letters that bypass logic and rules and grammar, that settle one by one on page, in splattered ink and scribbled hand. Look. See the sarcastic squiggle of that letter and the chuckle lurking behind that curve.
Can you hear the pain, the laughter, the tears, the fears. The hidden madness lurking behind shuttered neutral letters. But these are rewritten. Encased in beautifully even typewritten letters. They are composed and neat. Each word evenly spaced and studiously placed.
But come now. We know better. Even beautifully encased typewritten words are powerful. And dangerous. Can you not feel their influence. In silence they weave their spells, gently, irrevocably. Can you not hear the whisper of leaves turning, the crackle of paper.
Pages are silent absorbers of ink and thoughts and words and whispers. Neutral listeners. Now turn the page. Begin.