I flip through the pages of a book, with my nose practically touching the words, intertwined with the rhythm of the sentences, paragraphs, chapters… and the beat goes on and on and on, like a thumping in my body. Each pulse creating greater inspiration, and I’m lost in the author’s world.
I lay in the grass, the gentle breeze washing my face with its willowy hands, watching the ants dance in the jungles they call ‘home’. I’m no longer part of the outside world. I am in my place of calm, of freedom, of peace. And it’s just me and the author. Although sounds my fill the air around me of laughing children and playing dogs, the only thing I hear is the author’s voice ringing through my ears.
Most days, I find myself strewn about for hours, on my blanket, water laying beside me, bag under my head like a pillow, eyes focused on hundreds of words, absorbing all that I can from all that I read. I sink into the earth; its blades of grass are my cushion. And I breathe easily knowing that I have this place of comfort, a place that I can always rely on, a place that I love, and come back to each and every time I want to escape into the depths of someone else’s story.
Because for me, reading isn’t just about the book, or the author. It’s about the comfort and simplicity of where we are most at peace with ourselves. My place, my simplicity, is here.