xeryfyn's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Februarium Part 2: What You Love -This one's about your favorite things, or pick one thing and wax rhapsodic on it. What turns you on? What gets you out of your bed in the morning? What brings you out of your funk? -------------------------- There is a rasp, like the voice of a familiar friend, as the books slide from the shelf. A sigh as the flyleaf on the endpaper shifts in my palm as I open the first succulent pages. It is a diving point, like the brief moment of air that catches your breath as you disappear beneath the water. My thumb rubs the same edges, softly worn. My hand catches my hair from obscuring the words that lift me from the monotony of life and spin me into the fantastical obscurity of my book world. I soar. The inexplicable comfort of those first few words of a favourite book linger on my tongue, sometimes so sharply that I must say them aloud. I feel like they have embraced me. They tumble along, driving madness from my mind and allowing the sweetness of a moments rest, of respite. I feel as though I would not trade them for the world. And then I pick up a new book. A betrayal? Perhaps. But the tingle of excitement. The freshness of the pages. The perfection the the spine. The shhhifff of the opening, the anticipation of the precious first page. Like meeting a new friend. I meet them in bookshops, beckoning from storefront windows, from discount bins, from beneath other people's beds. I hear them calling to me--save me, take me home, hold me, love me, cherish me. Come. And when I tire of them or life gets in the way, forcing me to come up from my deep dive, resurfacing and pausing, they wait patiently for me to reach that point of reacquaintance, of reconciliation. For that moment when their words will soothe me, will bury me, will heal my momentary lapse of faith is the essence of their creation. And I can return to them at my leisure. They are not jealous or envious (or if they are, they hide it well) when I pick up another in front of them. They will not complain much being toted around or, as my child is now discovering, being tasted. Insomuch as I live in this world, my sanity often lingers between the haphazard bookshelves that line my walls. And my husband and my child would have it no other way. At least this way, they know where I am when life begins to crowd me out. 1:05 a.m. - 2/11/2003 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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