you are in a cabin, far from what defines reality, blurring the line between what's real and what's fantasy, far from all people. the sun peers over the towering treetops and tenderly kisses the back of your neck. in your hands lays a book, the title of little importance. for you are already enveloped, fully submerged and committed to the pool of letters that will spill through your very pupils to you soul.
the events that unfold within the dog-eared pages will dig a hole through this trivial thing called worry, disputing doubts, and calming anger. they will nestle themselves deep within the sand dunes of your soul, dangerously close to the memories you bottled up as a child. these thoughts, these ideas you will read of, they shall become you. you shall become them.
they will spoon-feed this little thing called imagination that you once wore like a favorite sun dress. this "imagination" was a dear friend of yours, but you abandoned him when you blew the tenth candle out, marking the end of childhood. this old pal of yours - he peers through the window, squinting to see what could be. He seldom appears anymore, as if indifference has chased him away.
you ponder the loss of this friend, reminiscing about good times. but then you smell that familiar scent of paper pages. your fingers run over their corners, down the spine, treating the novel like a delicate corpse waiting to be resurrected.
so you breathe in deep and allow your eyelids a quick rest, preparing to delve deep into whatever adventure lies ahead.
then you unlatch the window and push open for air, instead, you find imagination's gentle stare.