Glide, Not Fall
glide, not fall; general; pg; sora
Books. Books were and always had been the biggest comfort.
There was something odd about something so inanimate as a book being the most friendly, the most inviting, the most forgiving. Cold ink, stark black against stock-still white page upon page, paper that crumpled and burned and cut, if one handled it the wrong way. There was nothing comforting about paper. Paper couldn't hug, paper couldn't love or cherish. And yet books had always had their arms held out the widest, their embrace most welcoming and simple.
Generally discarded ones, from yard sales, thrift stores, ones that neighbor children had outgrown or grown tired of. Sora didn't mind having secondhand items - they were going to the trash, and it wasn't so bothersome or out of the way for him to be given them. Half of them didn't even cost money - heaven forbid he have an expensive hobby, the horrors that he'd be bringing down upon them...
And it was anything, anything he could snag his fingers into. A lot of non-fiction. Books of birds, of plants, of old computers and VCRs and shoes and cows and dinosaurs (which he read at night, under the blanket, with a small, hand-held flashlight, giving small shudders when he reached any chapters about velociraptors; cheap thrills). Medical textbooks. Pharmacology, neurology, anatomy. Picture books. Graphic novels. Magazines.
But it was the fantasy novels in which he sought the most comfort, whose arms were held the widest, whose calls were most inviting. They snaked around him and enveloped him, drew him carefully and lovingly into their worlds, where lights danced and so did the people, where there were pirates and fairies and mythical creatures that he couldn't dream up in his wildest nightmares.
Similarly, because of their wild promises, because of their far-off worlds, ups and downs and whimsy, they were also the ones most cruel, the ones he despised. The ones that dangled these beautiful words, these promises of happily ever afters that he could never dream to achieve or even deserve, roped him slowly into their lair and set him loose once he was done reading, feeling stripped raw and abandoned. Cheated.
He hated books. He loved books. He wanted to never stop reading. He wanted to live inside of these worlds, he wanted to curl up inside of the pages. He wanted to read and read and read until his temples hurt and his eyes burst into flames, until all that was left inside was ashes because he'd exerted so much energy, because he'd never stopped reading. He wanted to be a shell, the rest of him dissolved into these pages, into these worlds that were so much more exciting than his own, welcoming of even the strangest of creatures, unicorns and satyrs and werewolves.
Sherlock. Frodo. Mr. Tumnus. A cacophony of characters whom he simultaneously ached to meet and love and cherish as he did within the pages of these books, and also thanked, the world, the gods, whoever would listen, that they would never be able to find someone like Sora was, someone so strange and small and sad and nonexistent. He was afraid to meet them. He was sure they would point, and laugh. They were just used to so much more impressive...
He spent some nights wrapped, just clinging to whatever book it was that he was reading. Sometimes he'd cry. Sometimes he couldn't help himself. But he'd hug and hug until the bindings left marks on his arms, until he felt drained enough, until he drifted off to sleep, in worlds of rain and mountains and lost boys.
In the haven of his own room, of his own home, of his own cage, he could truly lose himself in his books. He could clutch them to his chest until they finally dissipated, until ebony rills of ink would twine with paper pages. They would combine into a smog, a deep, musky shade of grey, so dark and rich that he would think it hellish, did he not know any better. Every inch, he'd be enveloped, he'd soak into the cloud, disappear in the fog. He'd be truly invisible, truly lost, and only then would he be allowed into these loving pages, into these loving books that cradled and clung like scotch tape and needled fingers.
He would stand at his sill, he would cast away his troubles. And then, and only then, would he be truly allowed to let loose-- and glide.
Books. Books were and always had been the biggest comfort.
There was something odd about something so inanimate as a book being the most friendly, the most inviting, the most forgiving. Cold ink, stark black against stock-still white page upon page, paper that crumpled and burned and cut, if one handled it the wrong way. There was nothing comforting about paper. Paper couldn't hug, paper couldn't love or cherish. And yet books had always had their arms held out the widest, their embrace most welcoming and simple.
Generally discarded ones, from yard sales, thrift stores, ones that neighbor children had outgrown or grown tired of. Sora didn't mind having secondhand items - they were going to the trash, and it wasn't so bothersome or out of the way for him to be given them. Half of them didn't even cost money - heaven forbid he have an expensive hobby, the horrors that he'd be bringing down upon them...
And it was anything, anything he could snag his fingers into. A lot of non-fiction. Books of birds, of plants, of old computers and VCRs and shoes and cows and dinosaurs (which he read at night, under the blanket, with a small, hand-held flashlight, giving small shudders when he reached any chapters about velociraptors; cheap thrills). Medical textbooks. Pharmacology, neurology, anatomy. Picture books. Graphic novels. Magazines.
But it was the fantasy novels in which he sought the most comfort, whose arms were held the widest, whose calls were most inviting. They snaked around him and enveloped him, drew him carefully and lovingly into their worlds, where lights danced and so did the people, where there were pirates and fairies and mythical creatures that he couldn't dream up in his wildest nightmares.
Similarly, because of their wild promises, because of their far-off worlds, ups and downs and whimsy, they were also the ones most cruel, the ones he despised. The ones that dangled these beautiful words, these promises of happily ever afters that he could never dream to achieve or even deserve, roped him slowly into their lair and set him loose once he was done reading, feeling stripped raw and abandoned. Cheated.
He hated books. He loved books. He wanted to never stop reading. He wanted to live inside of these worlds, he wanted to curl up inside of the pages. He wanted to read and read and read until his temples hurt and his eyes burst into flames, until all that was left inside was ashes because he'd exerted so much energy, because he'd never stopped reading. He wanted to be a shell, the rest of him dissolved into these pages, into these worlds that were so much more exciting than his own, welcoming of even the strangest of creatures, unicorns and satyrs and werewolves.
Sherlock. Frodo. Mr. Tumnus. A cacophony of characters whom he simultaneously ached to meet and love and cherish as he did within the pages of these books, and also thanked, the world, the gods, whoever would listen, that they would never be able to find someone like Sora was, someone so strange and small and sad and nonexistent. He was afraid to meet them. He was sure they would point, and laugh. They were just used to so much more impressive...
He spent some nights wrapped, just clinging to whatever book it was that he was reading. Sometimes he'd cry. Sometimes he couldn't help himself. But he'd hug and hug until the bindings left marks on his arms, until he felt drained enough, until he drifted off to sleep, in worlds of rain and mountains and lost boys.
In the haven of his own room, of his own home, of his own cage, he could truly lose himself in his books. He could clutch them to his chest until they finally dissipated, until ebony rills of ink would twine with paper pages. They would combine into a smog, a deep, musky shade of grey, so dark and rich that he would think it hellish, did he not know any better. Every inch, he'd be enveloped, he'd soak into the cloud, disappear in the fog. He'd be truly invisible, truly lost, and only then would he be allowed into these loving pages, into these loving books that cradled and clung like scotch tape and needled fingers.
He would stand at his sill, he would cast away his troubles. And then, and only then, would he be truly allowed to let loose-- and glide.