I travel into places thousands of miles away, into places that are night when it is day and day when it is night, and into places that don’t exist–or, it can also be argued, that they do indeed, exist–at least enough to help me wander away from reality for however long my attention allows.
I travel several places from the comfort of my own bed.
I do this through the stories I read, through the literary fragrances that indulge my senses through imagery, poetry and prose.
Although I wasn’t a bookworm in my childhood, as I got older, I became more accustomed and aware of the beauty of words. Snow days off from school resulted in late night reading in the dark as I indulged myself in the Selection series, pretending like I didn’t have upcoming exams to study for. It felt amazing reading in the dark (I used my phone before getting a Kindle, which wasn’t too long after I realized my love for reading in the dark) as I was able to escape into a portal of words that engulfed my consciousness into a story through the eyes of America Singer. My increased appreciation for tangible books came alongside my reading in the dark, and I craved to hold tangible books in my hand even if I did already have them available to read on my Kindle, loving the feel of a story, something so complex and ongoing, simply resting between my fingers.
I love books, whether they are painted with words of stories or poetry, fiction and nonfiction.
I love holding the piece of art in my hands that is painted by imagination through the innumerable colors of words. I feel like the word “artist” brings into people’s minds a few things: people who draw and paint, sculpt, and compose music, among other things; however, I feel like authors are often left out of the categorization of artists.
Writing is my favorite way of being an artist. The stringing together of words in a book are my favorite form of art, and I love holding the product of them in my hands; I love holding the artwork that is a book, especially a story. I find it amazing, putting the current book I’m reading facedown opened to my current place, and contrasting the stillness of the setting around me with cars speeding away and people walking about if I’m reading outside on a sunny day or in a coffee shop, or what in that case would feel like stillness to me in contrast to the complexities of the story I’m reading, or the stillness of me laying on my bed with another world, a sequence of events, lying right in front of me despite my perceived stillness of time.
Words, especially stories, offer me a portal that I happily jump into. I love wandering the words, accepting the passing on of ideas and emotions from page to person, from author to audience. I love morphing into another person, allowing the author (ahem, artist) who holds my hand and guides me through the pages on their own Pegasus of imagination that merges with my own.