I have forever lived inside of books.
As young as i can remember, I would be found lost in some fantastic story of adventure and travel, heroes and villains, treachery and intrigue. I would grow so immersed in a tale that, upon closing a cover, I would walk away still inhabiting that unreality.
Oh, oh, the monster it created.
So many days and lost hours spent crawling through worlds I would never know outside those pages. The amazing collection of maroon bound tomes with deep set black letters pounded richly into their covers that graced the wall of my grandmother’s home. I still think of those today. Decades later. I spent my childhood cradling those musty yellowed pages in my small hands. Reaching for something so far beyond myself. The incredible illustrations. The unbelievable tales.
Oh the monster.
As I grew older, those late single digit years of two wheel exploration found me hidden inside the stacks of the public library. Itself a sight to behold. Set atop a hill. Overlooking back waterways that cradled an ancient and historical fishing village whose own stories of bygone years, themselves, made interesting reading. So many days spent by myself overwhelmed by the wealth of literature that surrounded me.
Oh horrible monster.
I live with unrealistic expectations and needs for constant newness and adventure and wild vistas and page tearing excitement. Even now, I will walk from a library. After hours sunk deep into a chair. Knees up. Book nestled.
Even now. I will walk from a library out onto the street and my throat will catch and my chest will heave. My eyes darting, expecting some storybook villain or evil strangers to descend. The plot to play out before me. Characters of some great intrigue.
Is this the reason I am incapable of staying still, holding down a job, maintaining a relationship of any kind?
Of course I believe, deeply, that it did not help.
I believe my unwillingness to be satisfied with whatever little happiness lays before me, my need to always see other’s greener grass and look to higher peaks, speaks to some great and deep and serious character flaw. Some dark fissure deep down inside that never mends.
That dark fissure where all those stories from my youth till now have been thrown. It grows always wider, deeper, more empty with each tale.
And so I fight against that elemental part of my nature. Never allowing myself to sink fully into the muck.
Oh, the monster.
Instead, I allow myself to feel doubt from the tongues of others.
Voices that say
“what is” is good enough….
Oh terrible being.
My mind wanders.
Seeing closed doors.
And wanting to be quickly through them and away.
* “the motto of all the mongoose family” R.K.