And somewhere along the line, I’d forgotten how to daydream. Thank goodness I remembered before life closed any more of its doors on me. We’re never too old, after all, to let our minds wander off for a while and smile at the magic.
There was a colorful wall of wisdom that greeted her each time she swung the front door open. It was the solace she so badly needed after a long day, nestled inside of that tiny third story apartment she called home.
She often wondered if the way a pet owner felt upon returning from a grueling day – met with the rapidly wagging tail of a puppy – equated to the giddiness she experienced when welcomed back to her own abode by those bookshelves she loved more than life itself; filled with more magical stories than one could count.
It seemed impossible to explain the way black ink on white paper could provide such a feeling of being at home in her own skin. Only when she was deeply entrenched in a good book did she ever feel that she belonged; that she was free of judgment and criticism; the only time she didn’t feel so alone in her anxious anticipation for the future.