“I have always imagined that paradise will be a kind of library.” – Jorge Luis Borges
A dream.
Books everywhere.
Couldn’t recall much details later.
Didn’t seem unreal at that time though.
Even as a child, books would cast a spell on me.
Fascinating me with the intoxicating smell of the pages.
Grabbing a hold of my senses as I devoured the written words.
Hating it when it was time to leave the book world to the world around me.
I remember this clearly because this wasn’t a dream; this was how my life was defined.
Just leave me with my books and I would be happy as if I existed out of the world, out of time.
Kings, with all the treasures in the world, couldn’t be richer than me safely tucked in a corner with a book.
Looking back, I also remember how nothing could make me believe that the world of people deserved more attention.
Many years ago, I was thus the child who understood the hidden magic of books and would spend most of my time reading.
Now, every book has a story to tell, weaving what it has to say in a web of words that unravel as you read it through.
Our mind tries to decipher the meaning behind the words and make a coherent sense that gave an answer.
Perhaps this is why I had that dream of a room full of books, bigger than any library I had ever seen.
Quickly I started to read all the names of that collection as a feeling of calmness permeated.
Remarkably, even without being fond of reading, almost everyone loves a story.
Stories essentially satisfy the imaginative and curious urge of our nature.
There is no way to know if my dream was anything except a fantasy.
Unconnected with any higher truth, it had no deeper meaning.
Visibly though, my early years set up my identity today.
While others go for action or achievement, I read.
X-ray vision or super strength isn’t my power.
You couldn’t mistake me for a superhero.
Zen-like is how I feel though, as I continue to read.
