Reading in bed I look up, trying to find God in the ceiling. I do this while trying not to do the opposite of healing. I believe in finding purpose between pages, hope between the lines and holding the beginning of life in your hands. It feels warm.
I believe in books.
When I read a book, the neurons in my brain fire overtime, deciding what the characters are wearing, how they're standing, and what it feels like the first time that they kiss.
No one shows you.
The words make suggestions.
My brain paints the pictures.
I believe books are agencies of travel that I can depend on.
To read in bed is to draw around me invisible, noiseless curtains. Then, at last, I am in a room of my own and I am ready to burrow back, back to that private life of the imagination we all led as a child and to whose secret satisfactions so many of have mislaid the key.
Maybe I will never sit in the old cherry trees in Kabul, never learn how to launch a small pebble from a slingshot with absolute precision, never be witness to a man folding inside of himself. But for many hours over many months, I felt all of it.
I was there.
Not with them.
I was them.
I believe in reading.
I believe in words.
I am a very spiritual person, and it all began when I was very young growing up in a church community. This is an ode (prose and not my usual poem) to the vulnerability and sacredness that I experience whenever I read. I internalize texts in their entirety, which is why I am naturally drawn to honest pieces of work that feel raw, authentic, compassionate and multidimensional.