Taxiing to the runway…

I write this grudgingly under duress. Conversely, I write this grateful for the friendly nudge…If it weren’t for Dadoo my first posting would have been my only posting for a long time to come.
Currently I am at work—using my time wisely—bored to tears. I can barely keep my eyes open because, being half Arab and all, I don’t know how to fall asleep before midnight. It is a physical impossibility. I have busy work I could be doing, but that’s no fun. Besides, I’d rather be reading my book. Hmm…think they would notice if I snuck off to the bathroom and read there for 15–20 minutes? That’s enough time to read 2 chapters or so…well, I guess I can do it later.

Speaking of books, I have discovered the rich and fulfilling genre of children’s/young adult literature—fantasy to be precise. It started out as research for my own aspirations of authoring a children’s fantasy novel/series, but I found that I thoroughly enjoyed the stories. I related to the characters; was intrigued by the plot twists; and became enthralled by the alternate reality I was sucked into. I highly recommend anyone with a vivid imagination, the time, and a love of books to try it out.

I just finished the Song of the Lioness quartet by Tamora Pierce. (I really did sneak off to the bathroom at work to read these books.) It is about a girl, Alana, who wants to be a knight, and has to masquerade as a boy to become one. Cliché right? Yes, but fantastical nonetheless. I was so wrapped up in this story that, when I finished, I wallowed in disappointment because the ending wasn’t what I had wanted for Alana. Pathetic right? Yes, but I’m not ashamed to admit it. Part of the draw, I suppose, is not having to be me in this reality, in this life, in this time. It transports me to that universe that the author has created and I meld my being with its being. I live in it, through it and for it while I am reading. In my own existence, apart from reading the book, I perceive everything through the prism of the story’s reality. It’s as if in my mind’s eye that universe is where I reside and in it I am reading the story of this universe. Being a person with addictive tendencies, I realize that books are my drug of choice—not bad considering the alternatives.

My heart palpitates in anticipation as I hold the crisp, new book in my hands. I let my fingers wander over the cover, tingling as they memorize its texture and contours. I inhale deeply taking in the musky fragrance of the sandy paper mingled with the high-pitched scent of the printers ink. My heart quickens as I examine the illustration, excited at the prospect of the adventures I am about to embark on. I open the cover, eyes dazzled and glittering, more elated now than when I open one of those crystalline blue boxes to find the treasure inside. I read, taking long steady draughts, intoxicating my senses till I am numb. For the time to come I am nowhere and everywhere. Thinking of little else than the world I have been privy to. Mindlessly, I go through the motions of this life—the mundane pointlessness of bills, arbitrary rules, and ridiculous obligations. It is sweet having this little secret—a life that belongs solely to me. No one can intrude here, where sight, smell and touch are more real than anything I have ever known before. I walk among the extraordinary people, partaking in their fetes of accomplishment, their grief and their sorrow, their happiness and their love. I know it won’t last, but I can’t stop myself from giving every moment of spare time to reading. Faster and more fervently do I want to be caught in the whirlwind of the climax. That quintessential moment where everything slows down and comes together. For me it is sheer ecstasy, and my heart aches, yearning for it to last longer. It doesn’t, and my reading slows; I want to savor these last morsels. When it comes, that last word on that last page, my eyes crawl to it grudgingly. I read it; I become aware of the period that comes after it and what it means. I sigh—exhaling all the emotion that is caught in my throat like bile. I close the book knowing the sigh wasn’t enough. I am still hungry for more.