The family snooze away in bed, and I write late into the night. A beer on the go, and a nocturnal cool settles subtly on my bare arms.
Books are, of course, my chosen subject to write about, a topic that has so many facets, often hidden in plain sight, and so much scope.
Yet as I catch up with the notes on my recent reads, the memories of books long given away take over.
In this late and gently expiring hour, the recollections come thick and fast. The night always makes one introspective, especially for the past.
On this particular night my eye – and hand – run down the imaginary bookshelf of recall, mixed with different eras of my collecting, the covers vivid and smooth.
An old Famous Five cover from a nearly complete set purchased years ago, the variously tactile cover of the hardback edition of Endymion Spring…
An exploration of architecture in Egyptian temples, and the stark bleakness of outer space, adventuring astronauts lost to everything but themselves.
It’s these times I value. The unique wanderings in a labyrinthine world of words, reminding me of literary corridors I will, perhaps, walk down again…
Whether in contemplation or purposely.
Reminders of books moved on, in necessity or wrongly thought of as outgrown, treasures lost to me in haste.
Always these ghosts come at night, I like it that way, I am forever grounded in their literary shadow. Elusive yet bound to my heart.
*Image found at Pixabay
