Thoughts of comfort in the pages.
Strange how it is that I find a comfort in the pages of a book. It has the qualities of my normal dreams: the area is comfortable yet unfamiliar and I’m less concerned with myself and more with the situations unfolding before me. The first part being especially important.
The fiction I’m reading now.. I’m surprised how comfortable I am in this world. Down below in a 60 foot hole surrounded by an ever present menace of sand, being held captive by a very peculiar Japanese woman. She’s not evil, nor does she seem to have the thought process a “normal” adult in society would.. as if she lives in her own dream world, not happy nor incredibly unhappy. At times she’s very nice, if anything at all it takes away from the atrocity that is the crumbling small home at the bottom of this sand pit.
I find it increasingly strange that I feel such an attachment to the characters and setting of this book. I felt it very much with the last novel I read this month, but this one even more so. I just started truly reading as a form of escape, but also self empowerment. Reading unfolds in a way that other forms of storytelling cannot. It’s either empowering in its nature, or it’s my pre conceived idea of reading that gives such a feeling to my ego.
The sand, the hot sun.. the intimate situation between two people in the middle of impassible walls. The dank old wooden home without doors. I really enjoy this book, yet with every page that turns this comforting place is ever closer to being over, and I’ll have to search for a new hole to crawl in. I never thought sand, while being someone’s nightmare, can be my comfort.
I also really enjoy imagery and how it can vary from person to person. I would be interested in comparing how another persons idea of how something looks in a story would compare with my own.
