Crafted out of ink and fiber, letters that form words that congeal into a person I live for. We breathe life into one another, a kind of symbiosis. She takes me into her life to give my life luster, and I take her into mine to give her more life. There is a comfort in knowing I can always skip ahead to page 200, that her fate is already a predetermined bittersweet.
They are sacred, these stories, because they give love to a lonely spinster in a house full of, you guessed it, cats. I personally don't like cats to much, so maybe I'll be the dog lady. Dragons and adventure to the boy out in Iowa, unicorns in lush meadows to the little girl in New York. All these stories are someone's babies, they are trees that have been cut and shredded into a pulp to become blank palettes for life.
In these pages you disdainfully look down upon as "boring", there is the rise and fall of nations. There is time capsules of each era, priceless pieces of our history that are entrusted to these phantoms to keep and to display. Show, not tell. But then again, what are rules made for if not to be broken?
So somewhere up there, in the stars and milky swirls with chocolate chip cookies, there is a phantom taking flight, a promise sealed to it's forehead. And somewhere down here, among the cities and valleys we call "the real world", someone's light bulb is flickering, the sparks of a potential supernova. Another "real world" is being erected, because if there's anything these inky morsels have taught me, it's that reality is all relative.
