I inhale deeply. The seconds tick by. The air stills. Time stops. The breath doesn't come out.
Then it does.
Nat-geo, I exhale in a gush, a revered whisper.
It's there, just as I imagined, propped on the shelf neatly. It beckons me, urges me to come forth. My hand stretches out towards the tome - the bible of image-taking. It's cradled gently in my hand, that weighty book, sheathed in it's bound cover of blue glory. The hard covers open to reveal pages of glossy photographs which hold countless scenes and experiences. It's one which I will revel in for hours on and, immersing myself in the details and glory of nature and time.
Books are more than printed pages - they are the essence of existence. Their words record emotions and events, be it real or unreal. They emanate laughter though us, make tears shed and most prominently, make us feel.
It's magic, I tell you, magic which resides between the pages of books. I've spent many a night blissfully ignorant to the uncomfortable position rested in, a book propped upon the knees and glasses which slide down my nose, eagerly engrossed. The magic drifts out and embalms is in it. No longer are we tucked into beds - we sit on the dusty floorboards with Sara, the air infused with the scents of dust and fog, rats' scrabbling heard, we hear the faint strains of haunting opera music waft eerily and resonate through our soul. We are transported away to the faraway lands of which childhood dreams reside.
The heart pounds despite not running a marathon. The pages flip, and that movement of the wrist is solely that of the reader. She is engrossed, a slight smile curving her lips. This is unlike any other smile - it's genuine, it's bona fide. She's smiling unconsciously as she sees the battle which rages before her eyes ends with the hero slaying villain. She's smiling because the paths of fortuitous stars have crossed and mother and son reunited. She's smiling and laughing with the two characters, accompanying them down the street which is littered with autumn leaves, chuckling inwardly (and sometimes outwardly) with their conversations.
It is neither awkward nor gauche - how could it be? Is there any way in which laughing, in it's artful grace, be rude or ungainly?
Books are art - art for the soul, art wherein souls and hearts connect, when the spirit leaps with the pages. Books are our eyes for the world - we witness the unsighted, smell the unflavoured, taste the warmness of crisp buns on a cold winter's night. That, is the true purpose of a fulfilled book.
I've been reunited with books once more. I used to read with a fervour which seemed horrifying, but now isn't, on hindsight. I love them, as part of me. There has, and will always be a part of my heart reserved for that book, the book which dazzles me and leaves me gasping for air. But right now, the series I'm smitten with has drawn to an end, just as every good book has. It's left me halted at a juncture, left me to ponder the fates of the characters.
I just might think book-reading is an obsession, bordering on addiction.
So for now, our story draws to a close, that cliff-hanging to be continued.
But right now, I shall part with a farewell present. You might know it by now, from the title and pictures I've graced this post with.
Crème Brulee - in oatmeal form.
The shards of the browned crust crackle between teeth, melting away into sweet nothing-ness. It's another sort of magic, this one for the palette. Bruleed oatmeal, is a joy unto itself. The name tells it all. Crisp covering, soft, creamy insides. Not the repulsively sort of oily creaminess which seems to stick to the mouth like unskilled buttercream frosting, but that of silky and plump oat grains. Relish in the sweetness as you might a good novel, and perhaps add a strawberry while at it.
- to be continued -
<a href="http://www.bloglovin.com/blog/11894153/?claim=n6zh8u423uw">Follow my blog with Bloglovin</a>