The Closeted Bookworm

I closed the book, morally justified with the ending of someone’s else’s story. I couldn’t help but think I wasn’t holding up my end of the bargain and had somehow abandoned myself out of deep-seated fear and shallow belief that I could and would avoid any morsel of recognition that may arise along the way that would have the audacity to pull me out of my current belligerence and boredom.

I set the book face down on the hard wood of the hall table with slight thud, to be left until such time as I’d remember to return it to my local library and exchange it for another adventure into the world of expression and prophetic possibilities.

I had found life and vibrancy in someone else’s words with a depth I struggled to attain. The articulation and construction that had built a life within the pages of vivid adventure without trepidation had to be applauded and admired, I thought.

Books were always my escape, I could travel anywhere, be anyone or anything, brave, silly, comforting, sexy, traumatized, or learned. I could fly to the moon, soar on angel wings, fight monsters, traverse the universe, spin the wheel of fortune and adventure and still be home in time for dinner.

There is something comforting about the feel of a book, the textured pages, the size and type of font, the cover design, the binding all designed to tantalize the senses, pique curiosity and launch one into a new universe of learning, be it fiction or non, fantasy or academic, gothic or historic. It is all a choice that sets the initial intention of time and what I will and will not allow into my universe at any given moment in my current timeline. The older I am, the more selective I have become, yet I am still a willing participant within the life of voices looking for approval, acceptance, permission, filled with generations of scholars, poets, authors, and peers. All have a voice, all have something to say. Does it matter who listens, does it matter who learns? Or is it that I am just learning something about myself, my mind, my heart, my soul, my thoughts, perceptions, and beliefs against that of others in the process?

Words have power, they have their own energy. String them together and they can create laughter and joy, uplifting and expanding experiences of the senses; from pure enjoyment to silliness or devolve them into the anger and frustration of unmet expectations and limitations projected with a sense of purpose and righteousness onto the page in spite of where and what the author was alluding to. It is their words, but my journey as I traverse the paragraphs, chapters, grammar, and storyline. It has to pique my curiosity and draw me into the story within the first paragraph otherwise it’s doomed to the shelf to wait patiently to be discovered by another unsuspecting soul ready and willing to be seduced by its blurb and enticed into an experience of unknown quality within its pages until the very end or not.

Books draw me into places I never thought I would go, mentally, emotionally, physically, and spiritually. A gradual ascent into a fantasy world set beyond the stars, where superhero’s are born into light and contrast the darkness of destruction which perpetuates cruelty and greed at its core, or tossed with abandon into a torrid affair as lovers each hold onto the hope of a secured future as backdrops rally and conspire to keep them apart to accentuate the tension and urgency, as anticipation drips off my brow as I rush to turn the page to find another hurdle or solution, not of my making.

The literary greatness of Shakespeare, and Keates, Austen, Bronte and Christie all started somewhere, a desk, a chair, a quill and scroll, did they know how far their words would take them? No, they could not, their words reached further than the world they knew or could ever have imagined yet write they did. Did they write for fame? No, they wrote for choice and expression, they had something to say. We listened, we learnt.

An inner voice yearning to be heard and recognized through the maze of noisy thoughts, timely criticism, and self-righteous judgment at the audacity of thinking one may have something of value and relevance to say and still have the courage to write it all down. That is impressive.

Where is it that I am finding my story? Where is my road map, my intention and my willingness to allow my words to have volume and worth to be printed upon a page, typeset and bound to be housed within the hallowed halls of historic prestige or do they remain closeted within the files and security of my laptop or within the pages of a long forgotten notebook to be discovered upon my death and ultimately tossed into the wind of obsolescence by my children, who may have no idea that I had something to say other than sarcasm, but did anyway?

We all want relevance and perspective, I want my own, determined by my birth, my experience, my needs, and my journey into love, ensuring my passion is shining brightly through it all. What that will look like, no one knows, but I forge ahead anyway, unwilling to be compromised any more by those around me who unceremoniously try and squash my vibrancy without any discernment of facing their own fear.

I write from my heart and soul, I write from my frustrations and limitations, I write from caring, kindness and generosity and I write from trepidation, fear, and anxiety of rejection. It is all me and I write it all. I write even when the storm is raging overhead and the rain is pelting horizontally against my door as the sheets of lightening highlight the weight of the clouds in the distance.

I do not wait to be asked, I choose to write. Will someone read it? Maybe, or maybe not, it no longer matters. What matters is that I write. What matters is that I trust myself to write, to speak up and to not allow my voice to be silenced and vanquished into oblivion as I would have done in the past too afraid to have an opinion, or that I might have a story worth writing.

I write what is relevant to me, rather than to an audience. There will always be someone who will resonate with it and those who will not. I am learning to be my voice, my heart, and my soul in the cosmic journey of a life with love.

I have something I need to say, rather than, who is the someone that needs to hear it, it doesn’t matter, because I hear me, the loud, the proud, the hesitant, the fearful, the sad, the grieving, the gifted, the tongue tied, the protagonist, the perpetrator, the anxious, the caring, the kind, the willful, the defiant, the delightful, the truthful, the hopeful, emotional me.

I no longer wait for permission, instead I wait patiently for inspiration, wisdom, and an effortless flow of words as the story starts to craft itself onto the page. I am in the chrysalis, the closeted bookworm waiting to break free and spread my wings and fly into the universal wonder of words and consciousness and the stories waiting to unfold from my heart with the grace that my life allows, and to connect with my soul at a whole other level and to write from there.

The library, is my respite from life, nestled within the architecturally designed modern steel building on the main street of my lakeside town. It peers out across the mangroves and sands of Black Neds Bay with scattered glimpses of the channel and ocean beyond. It has a rich and enticing landscape for imagination and prose. Its lofty position on the first-floor leaves room for the terrazzo, steel, and glass staircase to be the central and focal point of the building’s entrance as it commands the space between the upper level, community rooms, and visitor centre below. Many an elder person has had to confront their frailties with the choice of either attempting to take the stairs and are they able to or not, or to hold out for a ride in the steel encased elevator located opposite, hoping not to have a panic attack at the confined space on the way up or get stuck with their walker wheels in the gap as they try to cross its threshold before the doors slam shut. It is an interesting choice and comical at times to witness their rescue from well-meaning people who actually make things worse.

The sanitized tables and chairs and rows of metal shelving filled with books are no match for the old and great libraries of the world, with their wooden shelves and polished tables oozing literary giants and inviting deep couches tempting and teasing more comfortable and longer stay and foray into new genres, but it works for me as I play with my imagination in a place filled with encouraging and intrepid souls who dared to dream and who once put pen to paper, whether they realized it or not.