ex libris

I dream of books. Of stack upon stack of printed page, whose stories and anecdotes await my perusal. Their narratives enmeshed in the frailty of paper – vellum, parchment, fine print, glossy, matte, cold-laminated, trade paperback, and so forth; each percolating amongst pristine shelves that line an off-white room. Clean but not spotless, warm, cozy, intimating walls that seem to caress the binding of these books, each kissed by the powdery texture of this protective surface. Wooden shelves whose grain and weave hint of their own stories untold, unknown,  unread, unrejoiced, unfelt, unexulted carry these books like the cradling arms of a mother, delicate yet steadfast.

Each book, a world on its own. An earth I long to visit, whose landscape eludes the vision of my logic, but uplift and enthrall, transcend and unbound the spirit. They afford me to leap beyond the wall of my solipsism, and partake of a reality, imperfectly perfect as my own, but no less as beautiful and exquisite. They are treasured companions when ensomhet besets, nursing my anxiety into the tranquility of their terrain – pax libris. They surround me, enveloping my troubled mind with the suspension of disbelief, creating, crafting, conjuring and coalescing an experience both unique and pedestrian, real and surreal. From fragmented fairy tales to epic expanses, they explore and experiment with the capacity of my psyche, engaging my thoughts to participate in the subtlety of verse, and the provocative poetry of words.

I am part of these stories, as they are of me. Each line and plot evoking an emotional commitment that binds me to these words, becoming experiential and interactive. I explore the landscape of literature through the words of another, and am thankful for the gift of transcendence afforded by their shared experiences, sifted, filtered, processed and embellished for my consumption.

I dream of books. Of esoteric and profound lines offering their wisdom, latent and awaiting my discovery in the massive volumes that sheath them. Meritocratic manifestations of the ability of the human mind to distill experience and imagination into form and structure, that chromates the doldrums besetting the recluse. These lissome visions negate the lacuna, filling my inadequacies with the reason overwhelming, value overflowing, and flair outstanding.

In the parched pages of my own history, I turn to books to reinvigorate the tired, awaken the slumbering, and inspired the jaded. My books have always been my constant companions, through the depths of my depression and the peaks of my elation. They are silent bookmarks commemorating moments, and how the books I have read and held document the fulcrums of my own story. Each turn, reminded by a book and a line, each experience a scene written in my own continuing opus. These tomes define and inform my thoughts, and consequently the method by which my life is read.

I dream of books. And one day I dream that, despite the irrational unfeasibility of it, the utter implacable improbability of the thought, I would compose one of my own. A lasting canang sari to those who have come before me, in the hope that my words would beget a salving solace to others, as the ones I’ve had the privilege of reading had.

Original images are from here, and here.