The Quiet Days or The Power of a Good Book

It's a quiet sort-of day, the kind built for blankets and books but so rarely spent that way.  Reality demands action: coffee and traffic and e-mailed responses.  Reality doesn't give a damn how wistful you are or just how much the sky reminds you of a foggy moor or a deserted ruin.  Reality just wants you to function like a responsible adult- that term that declares the death of all childhood wonder.

But today, just by virtue of the fact that reality can take tiny breaks during the weekend, there is quiet.  And there are blankets.  And books.  And a small, cinnamon-colored dog curled up on said blankets.  And a candle which smells of lavender and whose small, constant flame can take your mind to much darker, more dangerous places if you let it wander.

Nipping at the corners of thought are the irksome chores that never really get done for long enough to be called "finished".  Garbage to take out, showers to scrub, the general pick-up of endless items moved out place and needing to be restored to order.  But the words are more powerful and pull you into that soft lullaby where memory and fantasy dilute the vision of sharp, uncaring reality.  

You float away in it, wrapped in the comfort of paper pages under finger and firm canvas bound cardboard in hand.  You follow the long, meandering path of crafted thoughts and deeply felt imaginings.  You let the hazy warmth of the candle cocoon you inside the small room- away from details and tasks and effort.  And you thank god for the quiet.