A Hug, 9th March
Books are a hug for me. I find solace in the complicated sentences as the story unfolds before my eyes. I am drawn to the pages that leave a subtle smell of age and let out a soft hum of rustling leaves, fluttering in the winds. The life of the overly complicated main character is now my life, it spreads in my imagination, taking over my emotions and memories and for the time being, I am them; free of the burden of what is Mateo, free of what I have created as I busy myself with something others have created for me. Authors are like grandmas for their readers, they create a warm blanket consisting of words, commas and dots, hot drink that feels heavy in their hands yet soothes their thoughts and anxieties as the grandparent shares their life story or the daydream they had while cleaning the house. I once aspired to be that author, I once wanted to be the one providing the hug for my readers, I wanted to share my thoughts, my stories, the songs my heart used to sing, though in the end I was nothing more than a reminder. The annoying alarm in the morning that screams for attention, the angry boss at work with furrowed brows and a scowl on his face as he demands for the work to be done quickly, the disappointed parent with tears in their eyes, listening to their friend boast about their child while they long for a swift change of topic as they're ashamed of theirs. And in the end; I was the one who needed the hug once again.