the light on my bedside table glows softly, casting a muted golden hue over the room. propped up by three pillows, i sit in the illuminated circle of light. the book in my hand is heavy and well-worn. its thin pages slightly crinkled from having been thumbed through many times.
the clock hanging outside my room chimes 3 times. 3 o'clock.
3am and the world is silent. still.
in this tangible stillness that wraps itself around me, i have the indulgent luxury of escaping into my book.
the worlds and galaxies captured between the covers of books have fascinated me for as long as i can remember.
i remember bugging my mum to read to me when i was three. always sneaking into her bed to snuggle up with aesop's fables and disney stories. soon my parents showered me with truckloads of enid blytons, and roald dahls. there was a period of time when nancy drew and the hardy boys were my constant companions.
even till today, some of my favourite childhood memories include books. the afternoon i snuggled up on the sofa by the window in a pool of pale winter sunlight, devouring book after book as the rest of the world went by unnoticed.
i explored caves and secret tunnels with the famous five, and discovered gross & slimy things in 'goosebumps'.
the time i read 'little women' and identified so much with jo, fell in love with laurie and cried so hard for beth.
when i'd read my first autobiography, 'boy' and was introduced to a whole different world. one where i could relive actual events that had happened years ago.
how much i wanted to be sara crewe while i was reading 'a little princess', and find my own 'secret garden' behind an ivy-covered wall.
to this day, all the colourful characters in the books i've read are a part of me. they live in my imagination and subconscious. sometimes, a certain situation or person will remind me of something in a book.
i can't help but feel excited when starting a new book. tonight, it is charles dickens who writes to my imagination, whisking me off to 18th century london in 'bleak house'.
the clock hanging outside my room chimes 3 times. 3 o'clock.
3am and the world is silent. still.
in this tangible stillness that wraps itself around me, i have the indulgent luxury of escaping into my book.
the worlds and galaxies captured between the covers of books have fascinated me for as long as i can remember.
i remember bugging my mum to read to me when i was three. always sneaking into her bed to snuggle up with aesop's fables and disney stories. soon my parents showered me with truckloads of enid blytons, and roald dahls. there was a period of time when nancy drew and the hardy boys were my constant companions.
even till today, some of my favourite childhood memories include books. the afternoon i snuggled up on the sofa by the window in a pool of pale winter sunlight, devouring book after book as the rest of the world went by unnoticed.
i explored caves and secret tunnels with the famous five, and discovered gross & slimy things in 'goosebumps'.
the time i read 'little women' and identified so much with jo, fell in love with laurie and cried so hard for beth.
when i'd read my first autobiography, 'boy' and was introduced to a whole different world. one where i could relive actual events that had happened years ago.
how much i wanted to be sara crewe while i was reading 'a little princess', and find my own 'secret garden' behind an ivy-covered wall.
to this day, all the colourful characters in the books i've read are a part of me. they live in my imagination and subconscious. sometimes, a certain situation or person will remind me of something in a book.
i can't help but feel excited when starting a new book. tonight, it is charles dickens who writes to my imagination, whisking me off to 18th century london in 'bleak house'.
posted by gwynko at 2:13 am
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home