My return to literature was like a sailor
returning to the salt air after a decade ashore.
The thin clatter of books from bookshelves
were like oars clattering into a paddle boat.
The small creak of hardback covers sounded
like wooden planks curling beneath my feet.
It wasn’t long before I’d raised sails,
and made my way into the first waves
on a broad, shining sea of letters.
After a few bumpy chapters,
the waves came rocking,
building, like a crescendo,
until each page was its own torrent
of water and hellfire crashing;
battering and beating the boat
and I was there screaming along,
mad with the thrill of the ride.
Until finally the pages shut,
the seas grew quiet,
and I found myself drifting along
waiting patiently for another storm.
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