It seems I’ve truly learned to appreciate the love of reading.
I hardly do anything else these days
I sit in the TV room with the TV off
the blinds not open,
but the sun comes through anyways
and finds me with a book in my hands.
I’ve found myself not wanting to do anything else,
but I have so many plans,
Plans to go places
to do things I’ve never done
to discover art and photography and myself
but I have found that reading takes away the pain,
takes away the disappointment and frustration that follows
when life doesn’t happen the way you thought it would
because it never does;
reading takes me to a land, my own Neverland,
different in every book, where all of my plans seem possible
and it seems like things that I want for my life can be true
but only when I complete page after page,
engrossed in the world that exists only in my imagination.
And even though I never do anything else,
or get anything done,
the bookshelf compels me to empty itself of unread books it claims, slowly
so I never ignore its call, I never stop,
and I stay in the TV room
with the sun approving my actions through its consistent appearance.