Wanting

The page. There is a space in it, an understanding; you can almost describe it as visual scenery in cream (the perfect colour). The narration drawls at a blissful pace, and its placing of words seems driven by an earnest rhythm and preternatural sensitivity. It's almost like a painting, and could be painted as seen through all your senses. The world you take in from it breathes alive on its surface. It's enthralling to live in it, to see how fully its foliage passages extend their lively scent with great precision one a page at a time.

It's a tide of reason, of beautiful leafiness, and your eyes see it all, become all. And it's like beginning everything again because you are (sub)merging in this new language of retractile spaces and pensive stops, and turning the page with your mind in suspension, afloat, delightfully expecting. The breaks are so fertile and powerful that your imagination is doubly fired by this reality already once lived when your young self first apprehended the vocabulary, the poetry, the telling. You do remember that gathering of new feelings, of slants of creased meaning, that time when you first met the blind spots of the intellect and the novel and enticing shades and beams of light in the scenery of your mind.