Never more than today have I ever wished so fervently to immerse myself in a good book, delicious in detail and imagery. So well-pictured that I can feel the air, hear the leaves in the trees, smell the dust or rain or snow. This wistfulness that I’m feeling like an ache is to escape into the deliciously flavored setting, the dwellings, the lives and sensations of new characters, new friends, new me. To enter into a lushly drawn otherness and, entering, emerge newly born, freshly hewn, possessed of fine character and infinite possibility.
Such is the world in which I want to lose myself—and, if I have not yet found the vehicle written into which I can escape, I wish to be able to create such a universe myself. What does it matter whether I dive into someone else’s delicious creation or create my own lusciousness, enfolding myself ever more deeply and satisfyingly as I go?
No comments:
Post a Comment