I was a strange child, this I know. Books, for me, providing a sense of self, a companionable presence in a life that was composed of a self imposed isolation. Many days were spent hiding out, traipsing through fields of fiction; taking far flung trips of the mind. Then as now, I'm something of a bookworm. Although, I'm not currently reading like I used to. This being due to the fact that my life is in the merciless maw of trying to make a living. Trying to accumulate a few modest possessions that I can call my own. A dusting of snow has fallen on the roof, like a forewarning of my future. I'm compelled to stock the pantry with something enough, to see me through the winter.
Used to, I could walk through the stacks at the library and I would get a sense that there was something beyond what I was seeing. A door that wasn't seen but existed all the same. A door that, if I could find, and walking through, I'd disappear from this world of flesh, blood and need into a world of...who knows what. Like Enoch, I would be not.