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 pictur