Why do you like to read?
He asked me that one day.
Because he didn't much like to read,
and he wished I'd rather play.
I didn't know the answer then
and couldn't quite explain
that I used those books,
my very best friends,
to escape my day to day.
I loved to step away from life and into Anne Shirley's world
where I could walk to school each day and catch Gilbert's handsome eye.
I loved to cross into the magic lands holding Lucy's hand
and sit to tea with a fawn and his flute, eating sweet mince pie.
Because if I was there with them I wasn't home anymore.
I didn't have to think about life or see my latest score.
A book was an escape I craved like sugar, an addiction, like nicotine.
Playing pretend just didn't cut it anymore. I wasn't intending to be mean.
But he didn't get it.
He looked at me, asking.
And I couldn't explain my side.
He saw the world in a way I envied.
He lived here-and-now inside.
To him, feeling the mud between his toes was better than pretend.
Discovering those pictures in the sky meant laying in the grass in the end.
Drawing pictures in the sand with a stick meant feeling the wind in your face.
And if he wanted to escape, all he needed was to pick up the pace.
His eyes saw a world filled with wind, fire and ice, a fluid world he molded like clay,
With the toss of his rock, he could skip over water and send ripples out every way
Because in this world, the real physical world, he could do and he could care,
Cause at the end of the day what he dreamed was much better if he could only share.
I smiled at the way
he grabbed at the world
with both his eager hands.
I wished I could do
the very same thing,
let go of those faraway lands.
Because if I really
wanted my adventure,
the kind Frodo and Sam would take,
I needed to see
the world where I am,
go out and make a mistake.