I took last weekend and stayed home. And when I say stayed home…I MEAN stayed home. I had done any errands previously during the week and purposely kept my schedule open on the weekend to do nothing except relax. I don’t recall ever leaving the house.
As I thought about what I should do with my 48 hours of free time, I could feel an unspoken and understood longing emanating from my bookshelves. I casually strolled over and inhaled. I adore the smell of books. That delicious scent of a book’s binding, and the way that the pages unintentionally take on the smell of their surroundings lures me close to their silhouettes every time.
I ran my fingers over each title as I read it and carefully chose the one that best danced off my tongue.
I vowed silently to myself to only rise from the couch to eat, sleep, drink, and go to the bathroom. Other than that, I wanted nothing more than to sit and curl up with my literary find. If you visit my blog frequently, you are more than aware that my love for reading and writing overpowers most everything that I do. So naturally, choosing a weekend to do nothing with would wontedly lead me to one or the other.
To read with nothing but silence around you is exhilarating. I get completely enveloped not only in the book, it’s plot, and the characters, but also in myself. I reflect on my weak areas as well as my strong points. I sometimes see myself in the characters and can’t help but wonder “what if?”
I read and read. I didn’t even turn the TV on. It was fantastic. It was magical. It was rejuvenating.