Like portals into worlds unknown, they are so sacred. Like escape routes from reality, so comforting. Just holding one in my hands, feeling its weight as I leaf through the thin, membrane-like pages, brings a feeling of immense, ethereal joy to my heart.
Books have been there for me when all I needed was a shred of hope; hope that made me feel like, yes, anything is possible. They’ve been there to anchor me back into a world of reality. But this reality was easier. Easier than the one I exist in. However, for a moment I could forget. For a moment I could run through fields of poppies, or climb the tallest mountains, or hunt dragons, or make potions, or hide in underground tunnels.
For a dear 200, or 300 pages I was immersed into a world so different from mine, yet so cherished all the same. And when it was time to flip to that very last page, I felt actual sadness. As my eyes ran over the black letters, the sentences, I felt as if I was saying goodbye to the dearest friends.