“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.