found
January 18, 2015 § 9 Comments
Some days I drift through bookshelves, my hand trailing the closeted promises with a lover’s touch. Each story is a possibility, exquisite for the impossible uncertainty. It is a returning to; the first blush of an old love. Some pages turn with a hollow din, but others create a void of sound that consumes each minute, exaggerating the senses to an almost unkind generosity. In these stories I taste the words carefully, letting the shape of the ideas melt against my tongue with a childish delight for the impossibility of their composition. It is a genius of ability that manipulates the common into the exceptional and I am lost to the ritual of companionable loneliness that drives me toward a voice I cannot hear, until the ending brings a silence too loud to bear.
scribblechic 
….wow :O
Thank you.
Marie – I was unable to read your post and I was in tears – I remembered my first love when I was 17 years old. It ended when she had a car accident. Your blog today touched me!
Here is a tribute to my parents:
https://kmihran.wordpress.com/2015/01/18/mihran-kalaydjian-playing-tribute-to-my-parents-melody/
If my thoughts were of consequence to your memories, then I am honored. Thank you.
You were – what can I say ” I love you” the way you write:)
Summarizes, to some extent, my own stance through much of the month of January…
It is an impossible in between; I mourn the end of one story even as I greedily seek a new unraveling.
Just when I think my love affair with books is truly unique, you go and describe similar feelings:). I only wish I could sit still better. Work is sitting, so when not working, I find my body wanting to move . . . rather than sit still and read.
I am equally restless when I cannot sit still, when responsibilities pull me outside the indulgence of my cherished distraction.