I sometimes wonder if life would be
easier in the realms of the books that I traverse. They seem so…magical so awe
inspiring. I wish I could travel through Middle Earth with Frodo Baggins, or
meet the Summer King. I wish I could shoot targets with Katniss or speak to
dragons like Seraphina.
But I guess that’s the reason for
books to transport us to these realms far beyond our wildest imaginations and
make us dream amazing things. To take us away for a moment from the ordinary
and just…be. Allowing us to be scared or amazed or surprised (or all of the
above) as the words run across the page.
Sometimes when I run my fingers
across the pages of my favorite books I can almost feel the world around me
changing. If it hadn’t been for my mother reading me bedtime stories I never
would have discovered a Neverending Story or a place where Fairies and Pirates
and Lost Boys exist. In the depths of my imagination I can feel them calling
out to me telling me to join them, to take me on one last adventure.
As I look at my bookshelf now I see
the endless possibilities and the rainy afternoons spent inside cuddled under a
blanket with a cup of hot cocoa, going to a place where you never have to grow
up. Or to a place where werewolves, vampires, and witches (the stuff of
nightmares) exist around every bend.
But that is the magic of reading
isn’t it? Never knowing what comes next or where you will travel. You could be
riding on the back of Falcor the Luck Dragon or killing demons as a
Shadowhunter with Jace by your side. I guess what I’m trying to say is…you never
where you can go until you open a book.