As a child, I read, not just books, but whole libraries. I started life very sheltered with few hiding places. My escape was found within the confined shelves filled with pages of fantasy and adventure. Toward others, habit was to avoid rather than conflict. For even in simple greeting, I felt awkward. I had my place where I was content and safe. The writer's world brought life to me, giving much that was missing. I laughed with the joke, cried with the pain, but was always intrigued for more.
The passion of the pen is vast, showing precisely the true heart of man. Within the swirl of line on pad, the artist paints within, a beauty only the read can appreciate, for indeed, our mind is the writer's canvas. No one person will ever read the book the same.
And so too, our choices are vast and very different within our daily lives. But, to think for a moment, do they not all come from the same pages? Is there not that one thing we as a race have in common? The ability to love. To feel within, the passion you so need to express outwardly. Like a book cover, however, life can be too easily closed.
If I could find within my mind, to bring back those wisdom filled pages, I wonder would they work today. Not in print, but perhaps, this time in action.