Just a few days ago, my Aunty returned from her overseas holiday. She knocked on our front door with a little gift. A repurposed present, but a much loved one at the same time. She said ‘I’ve just finished reading this book and I thought you would really love it.’
A fictional story called ‘The prayer box.’
It’s not a revolutionary storyline, in fact the first few chapters were not that enticing, but something changed around page 103.
I got addicted.
I started to dream the plot line.
I found myself breathing in the story and its characters and soon I couldn’t put it down.
I’ve finished this little story now and I find myself missing the characters living on a little island, protecting that which is important and dreaming of better days.
What I adored about this little courtship over a few days, was holding a paper book in my hands.
Holding something tangible, folding its corners over like ears, eating its ink with my eyes and breathing in its touch with my fingertips.
My kindle and Ipad have a queue of books awaiting the flick that turns them on, however I am a little over the glare of the screen and I am most definitely over scrolling aimlessly through others thoughts.
I want to breathe in words again, how they were created.
Off to the library on tuesday for me.
Monday is a public holiday in Australia, otherwise monday morning would have been my friend.
Pick up some paper this long weekend and delight in its delicacy.