A Love letter to all books I’ve read and, I will
To my papered loves,
Our romance began 19 years ago, on that fated day in 5th grade when you walked into my life. You were but a single book, thin and compact, just being woken up by my fingers from the library shelf. Back then, I did not know that I was holding a promise. The promise of days filled with reading about heroes and villains and knowing that both lie within ourselves.
But I am going to unabashedly stick to knowing that you chose me. That you placed yourself exactly in my hands just on the very day that would change me forever. Because what followed is an ongoing, stupendous adventure.
The beginning also included sleeping with you next to my pillow, your story spilling into my mind, my dreams, and then waking up mulling over a character that I met the night before. And how do I explain the way your papered body sits patiently on my bed — -as I scourge through my to-do list for the day; knowing that I will return to you, no matter what?
And what of your smell? What of wisps of all the days you’ve lived so far. The way every single moment lays enclosed and safe in your pages and the way I want to dig my nose deeper and deeper into their folds and your spine. Or the way I brush my cheeks to feel the caress of your paper.
And then I wrap you, each time, like a mother clothes her baby. I wrap you tight in a plastic bag, careful that no single one of your edges gets folded as I take you along with me wherever I go.
I may not see you throughout the day as I work and eat and human with other humans, but the mere presence of you, somewhere in my bag, is enough, is necessary. Even on days when I know I will not have a single moment to spare, I sneak in a few moments with you, only if entails smelling your pages. Or touching them; a little bruised, a little calloused, perfect for my fingers to feel like they are making love to the most beautiful being in the world.
Then you speak of adventure, in hushed yet sure tones. You speak of lands lost to memory, lands yet to be crafted, yet to be lived in. You put me face-to-face with creatures so unlike the ones I know — of people with ears like leaves that sing trees to sleep, of fire-breathing dragons and warrior-princesses. Of men who aren’t afraid to be their raw emotions. Of people who lay their hearts right out for the world to see, without apology.
And then thank you for the days you never left. The days where my darkness surged and my heart was broken, but you soothed me with your words. Those days when my only comfort was the space of your worded body, sometimes off-white, sometimes freshly printed. How else is love spelled so effortlessly than what you’ve done for me?
How can I ever write about the way your stories are never just that alone: stories? The way they breathe so much more. The way they are life; undulating, flowing, changing. Of how they are alive, with a pulse that can weave in with your own and make you breathe a little harder, a little faster. How could I write about the way words are portals to undiscovered universes, where logic must be left by the door and only your wild to be let in?
But I could write about love, the kind that makes you want to believe. The kind that sets you free. And then I could write some more about the possibility of happily ever-afters, not just from the fairy tales, but the ones that two souls create, time and time again. And I could also write about how words make love to my heart. The way they hold it, sing to it, kiss it: deep and pure.
And I want to write about how home, most often than not, is found right between your pages.
Love,
Your reader
