To all the writers I’ve grown up reading, I thank you for something unexplainable.
I would spend my nights reading by the windowsill on the second floor, staring first at the moon, and then at the deep drop to the ground. A rush of adrenaline, fear, or wonder would pulse through my veins; yet, as I returned to the book gently perched on my awaiting lap, the feeling of pure excitement remained. It came to me, that the drop to the ground was the equivalent to the emotional unraveling of the book (minus the physical pain and broken bones, of course). I could read the pages again and again, and I would be falling every single time.
For once, I wasn’t afraid of heights, of the fall into the oblivion, as the pages told me a story I had grasped at the edges. I would never let go, not now, not ever.