I like to read every single word, every single sentence and halt at the full stop to conjure the complete compact image of all that is in the sentence, take a deep breath and then move on. I like the feel of paper as I turn the pages one by one, slowly, very slowly, carefully, not missing out on any opportunity of sniffing the book more often as I proceed. There is a lifetime of desire there, of words stored and conjured up at that precise moment of magic. I fill them in through my lungs pause and fill more. As my eyes travel through the vacancies of the imagination, I halt to make a previous picture more colorful, dull down another previous one if I find it too bright, and wait for the burst of an unexpected one hiding in the corner waiting to surprise me.
I am slow. I savor words. I feel them on the tip of my tongue, let them travel through my windpipe to settle down into the abyss of my stomach and take a deep breath in to start all over again. There is no pattern to my reading, just a slow simmering of all the sighs and wallows of contentment that seem to fill my every pore as I secure more worlds. Mine is a world of flowers, thorns, dried leaves, dew, twigs and walked over grass.
I am slow. I savor words. I feel them on the tip of my tongue, let them travel through my windpipe to settle down into the abyss of my stomach and take a deep breath in to start all over again. There is no pattern to my reading, just a slow simmering of all the sighs and wallows of contentment that seem to fill my every pore as I secure more worlds. Mine is a world of flowers, thorns, dried leaves, dew, twigs and walked over grass.
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