Silent friends
I love being surrounded by books. They have the ability to soothe me almost instantly. On days when balance was a thread so thin that I could barely feel it underneath my feet, I retreated to a corner in my room, where a small desk nestled among rows and rows of books that I collected over the years, and just let their huge presence consume me. It was a strange need now that I’ve come to think of it, but I felt at peace knowing that I was just a tiny, insignificant drop in an ocean of creativity.
On days like that, I couldn’t read anything. No reason or logic offered the answers I was seeking. No story, fiction or not, could tell me what I didn’t already know. Yet I still came to that comfort space where my books resided.
There seemed to be some kind of energy radiated from them. In silence, we communicated. Time seemed to pass in an unusual way when we did that. A moment felt like a lifetime and a full roller coaster ride of emotions flashed by in just a split second. I saw, once again, a glimpse of the measureless and my troubling soul gently returned to tranquility.
I dare not say I understood what happened or how to get to that state. Perhaps it’s better that way, because had I known, I would have sneaked into the zone and stayed there forever!
