Storytime

I'm reading a book.

Not a website, or a digital rendition of a page on a Kindle or iPad.

A book.

Surprising, isn't it, that a self-proclaimed technophile and internet addict has unplugged herself like this. But there's a fond familiarity about curling up on the couch next to a lamp, a blanket tucked around my feet, and a book resting under my hand.

The pages are smooth under my fingers as I open it, the familiar smell of paper and ink wafting towards my nose. It's subtle, though. I've had this particular one for years. Like a car, it loses its "new" smell after awhile.

Chapter one.

I know this story. It's one I've read several times. But that doesn't detract from what's in front of me right now.

In fact, it makes it a lot easier to let go.

The story has a rhythm to it. All stories do. It starts off slowly, of course, building up from the beginning. Gradually, it draws me in.

Words disappear, melting into lines that become images. They take root in my mind and blossom into full color. The story comes to life in all its glory, vibrant and real, sights and sounds overwhelming my senses.

I am part of the story now, watching it unfold and yet immersed in it, hearing the narration describe thoughts and feelings, but seeing it happen right in front of me.

Tension. Nerves. Puzzlement. The protagonist can't figure out what's going on. Something's wrong, but he can't figure out what it is. It could be dangerous. It probably is.

Curiously, the drink he's holding smells like paper.

Laughter. Humor. Joking with friends, witty banter that lightens the mood. I want to hang out with these guys. I'm grinning, though I can barely feel it.

Something happened. Suspense. Discovery. A twist? What?!

Somewhere far away, fingers turn the pages, allowing the flow to continue, like hands cranking an old video reel.

Conflict. Peril! Darkness and fear; the protagonist has to run. Where are his friends? There! Behind. Fighting. A battle. She's fighting, too. I'm running with them; I can feel the evil they feel, I can hear the desperation in their voices, I can see what they're up against; my heart is pounding, will we make it?

Rustling nearby. Soft and completely at odds with what's going on right now.

Loud clashes, near misses, loss, sorrow, struggle. I'm breathless, with them and watching them and part of it all, everything panning out faster, feverishly—come on, you can do it, don't give up…

"Hey, what'cha doing?"

Blink.

The rhythm stumbles and falters. The world disappears. Sights and sounds are gone; in one brutal moment, I'm pulled out of the story and back to reality. The emotions vanish. Like a popped bubble, the fantasy world disappears. My nose is inches from the pages. The words are real again. My hand is stiff from holding the book in place; my foot has fallen asleep.

I look up.

"I'm reading."

You can tell I'm irritated, but you can't tell why.

"Oh…okay. I'll leave you alone, then."

Thanks.

I stare at the page in front of me. Whoa, I've read a lot in a short amount of time. Or has it been longer? I'm not sure.

I want the story world back. I left the characters fighting for their lives. Where did I leave off, exactly? Ah, there.

Rewind. Go back a bit. Start up the rhythm again. There it is.

I breathe. I blink. And slowly, the words work their magic once again, melting into images that pull me back into the breathtaking universe only they can create.

I'm reading a book. That's what you see, anyway.

But really, I'm living a dream.