Monday, February 2, 2009

The bondage of the bird of with paper wings


A bird of paradise in my hands. I return to my book whose pages, like the arms of a dear friend, comfort me. I reenter seamlessly into a world so apart form my own while so a part of it as well. I need this lover of paper and print, though why, I am not sure. Maybe for its charms, worlds of glitter and beauties, or for its subtle sweetness. Even for its dark demeanors, or melancholy moods, the forgotten glory of princes and poppers, rich and poor, loved and loveless. I call these worlds my own. I, who is stuck between their pages like a misshaped blot of ink, I revel in the sights and sounds of a new world, the smell of musty pages and the delight of wonders. The words create paintings before my eyes, which come alive in my mind. The turning of each page is like biting into the soft flesh of a sweet fruit. The juice drips off my chin and stains my skin like the brand from a hot iron. I always long for more, even when it has ended. Each is sufficiently mourned for its passing.
Like snowflakes, each is unique with qualities still much the same. There are an infinite number of possibilities. Despite each book’s nearness though, each is a world shrouded by the mist of incompatible understandings. Each has its own disappointments, though remember it in a reverent light and in time its scars and blemishes disappear leaving a more perfect copy in its place.

photo by: http://nchchome.org/shopping_cart//catalog/index.php?cPath=2&osCsid=0593a6c0098c5d52842f33def286d1cb

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