I've listened to a few audio books this year and have done my fair share of reading online as well, however nothing can replace the joy of curling up with a good book. There's something about a book that's so satisfying. Maybe it's the smell and feel of the pages, or the feel of the hard cover. Holding a book is so full of promise. It's filled with knowledge or adventures in a different world or time.
When I went down to visit Caren in New York, I had one of those surreal, timeless moments that could have taken place in a different era. I was curled up on her Shabby Chic couch in her Harlem brownstone apartment. Antique woodwork lined the ceiling and walls. The windows faced into the center courtyard with the glow of the other apartment windows taking over for the dark blue of the dusk sky. The wall in front of me was lined with books from edge to edge five rows tall. I had a book of short stories by F. Scott Fitzgerald in hand, and for a moment, I was just there. None of the daily fixes that I'm normally addicted mattered, such as my e-mail, Facebook, the Internet, etc... It was just me, the book and the room. Cars rushed by along 121st street. Distant sirens, horns and the subway could be heard muffled through the windows, adding to the coziness of being wrapped in a blanket inside. As the city rushed by outside, my little piece of the world stood frozen in time.
When I went down to visit Caren in New York, I had one of those surreal, timeless moments that could have taken place in a different era. I was curled up on her Shabby Chic couch in her Harlem brownstone apartment. Antique woodwork lined the ceiling and walls. The windows faced into the center courtyard with the glow of the other apartment windows taking over for the dark blue of the dusk sky. The wall in front of me was lined with books from edge to edge five rows tall. I had a book of short stories by F. Scott Fitzgerald in hand, and for a moment, I was just there. None of the daily fixes that I'm normally addicted mattered, such as my e-mail, Facebook, the Internet, etc... It was just me, the book and the room. Cars rushed by along 121st street. Distant sirens, horns and the subway could be heard muffled through the windows, adding to the coziness of being wrapped in a blanket inside. As the city rushed by outside, my little piece of the world stood frozen in time.
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