On Geography and Books

I've been thinking about it for the last couple days. I let the idea sit and I've come back to take a closer look. Well, what could I do without it?My reading history, I mean. I look back upon it and I can't help but notice the motley medley that lays there. A colorful collection or recollection that strangely enough works like a live structure. Oh, but if I stand beside it I can isolate it through the emotional load I attached every reading. Yes, my emotional geography of books, a tender let-go to the beauty of words and the excitement I exuded whenever there was a wow moment happening. I've had my good times and my rough times with books; but they were always there. 

I was a rebellious teenager, despised being one but couldn't let go of that faithful companion that shed light on my utmost aggravating dilemmas. I'm not going to say books answered all my whys or this-cannot-simply-bes but I had a lighthouse in the darkness and I thus I tried to find my way out of the cave, for I just recalled Plato. Any pretense down, books cannot replace reality, but offer an alternative explanation to the painful silences of the world. Don't forget that in front of the most terrifying experiences - love and death - man is mostly silent. And silence hurts. 

So I turn to words, beautifully carved words, nicely arranged in horizontal, parallel lines, in pages that follow one another like in a chase. Oh, but what a fair chase, they begin the chase when my fingers turn them, stir them from that wise stillness to come back to life and impact the human eye. What an odd relationship. You pass them by as if crossing fields of gold and poppy and green and blue and red and black and white. Always at a loss for what they have in store for me. For I know we keep an exclusive relationship, they will share an unique experience with me. I have my own kaleidoscope that I can always go back on. Oh, but there we go: I see hanging shapes, intertwining pages, words that break in whimsical dance of the meaning beyond meaning. I feel like almost landing in a surreal painting and the canvass is me. My books are relentless, they take the time to converse, to exchange lines and I find quite it astonishing to exist under such unusual circumstances. 

"Did you think we were going to settle for seclusion?"

"We're silent only outside humans. Inside them, we're alive and you'll hear our voice"