Of Pensieves and prose

Posted by in note, random

Reading is such an intimate experience. Not when that which is written is a mere wisp of what it could be, but when an author lovingly pens down every word as if etching the secret corners of his heart. When each letter echoes its desire to be expressed, and to be more than a simple electrical disturbance in the author’s mind.

Reading, then becomes an act of pleasure. You are transported to their mind, with its own rhythm and architecture. You visit their Pensieve; a silent observer to the magnificence which lies before you. You can feel the motion of every verb. You feel the aplomb of each adjective; the patience of the nouns as they wait to be acknowledged. The gradual painting of the canvas as it encompasses your mind’s eye, each word playing its indispensable role in the fulfillment of destiny.

Eons pass by in bated breath as you read. The future is unknown to you; for writing is the last frontier in the fight against ersatz ideas. Your mind clear, you wait for the punch. It arrives all of a sudden, like a lady late for work, and rushes about its business, leaving a hint of its perfume in its wake. Almost imperceptibly, the realization of the single sentence which defected blooms upon you, and then the ground starts to tremble as you comprehend the far-reaching consequences. Your stable, comfortable viewing spot has been torn down, and you’re thrown into the hubbub; as lost as the characters are. You’re excited, of course. Is that adrenaline coursing through your veins?

The clamor and din around you makes your heart beat quicker as you are suddenly faster. Words flow through as you place each in its rightful place with blinding speed. Your face a ravenous wolf’s, your expression intensifies as the jigsaw nears completion. Piece by piece, it fills until there is no more ink to read. You gape in slack-jawed wonder at the remaining empty page. The sudden vacuum leaves you light-headed, as you smile inwards and read the last paragraph again for good measure.

A void aches from within as you ponder what life holds next for you. A sadness fills the void as you say goodbye to the characters you had grown to love, adore, respect, and even hate. They were good company on this journey, and you hope to meet again.

As you unwillingly place the book in its new home in your memories, you thank the author for his Pensieve, and exhale, for the real world awaits.