Tuesday, April 10, 2012

I'm not sleeping, but at least my books are being read.

I lay wrapped in the darkness of our room. The sheets and blanket were like hot, stuffy clouds trying to tangle my legs and body. They were preventing comfortable slumber. 

The moon shone brightly through the shutters of our bedroom. I flipped over and lay on my back, gazing up at the ceiling with a sigh.

"J, I'm gonna' go read for a bit, I can't sleep," I whispered to the silent, slender form on my left. His body seemed heavy, but then again he was completely relaxed, so why shouldn't he sink gently into the bed?

"Mmmmphhhhok," came the reply.

I slid out from the hot sheets and my toes hit the cool of the hardwood floor below. 

Tiptoeing to the cedar chest in the library/living room (which is right off our bedroom) I grabbed a quilt and wrapped it around me. 

Shuffling over to the shelves, I grabbed a book at random and padded over to the long couch beneath the window. 

I could most-likely read by moonlight, but my head hurt a bit, so I flicked on the reading lamp. 

I began to lose myself to the first few pages; the glossy black of the cover warming in my hands, the smell of the ink on the pages comforting like the cool quiet of a true library on a hot, busy, summer day. 

The weight of the hard-cover was grounding against my knees as I curled up to enjoy myself.


Books are a rescue for me.

They are an instant relaxation, an escape, an enjoyment, a companion and an inspiration.

Lately, I've been having trouble sleeping, but it's not of the night-terror variety (I've had my fair share of those) it's more of the mind-on-the-wheel type.

The gerbil wheel.

Sometimes at night, I simply cannot shut my brain off. I list things over and over in my head until there's a running strip-- a worried commentary of 'To Do's,' that whirls inescapable.

Lately, I've been reading a lot.

Since I was a child, I've loved books. My folks used to come into my room late at night and confiscate my flashlight because I'd promised "One more chapter," and instead was about to finish the novel.

I always had something in my bag to read during unexpected moments of waiting: for the dentist, to be picked up, in-between classes, at the bus stop.... my book was always there for me.

I remember when I broke up with my first boyfriend... and my second... and my third... I read every single book on my shelves twice. On those occasions I couldn't sleep because I could think of nothing except the giant hole that was pulsating in my chest around my heart.

Books also got me through the death of loved ones, the birth of new ones and everything in-between.

I've always wanted to write a book  and I think I may start today.

 I've no idea what I want to write about, but I'll simply begin.

Maybe someone, somewhere will want to read it.

I probably owe all the authors (past, present and future) and should thereby contribute my own pages to the aid so generously offered by others.

I think it's time I gave something back.

Something beyond poetry, short stories, play plots, bits of dialogue and description.

It's time to write a book.

If only to write instead of read on these sleepless, pleasant nights, and give my bound pages of fellows a break... and a new companion to join their stacks.

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