This morning began with my strides into a completely new story

As I am catapulted from Bernadine’s exhaustive insight into the lives of different women as they go about their journeys in London, in England,
into the war torn Eritrea
as dust and smoke bellows from under the ground and fills up the space in front of my eyes.

Between my eyes and the words on paper there is an imagination so vast
it conjures up cities and towns and wars and soldiers,
In no time.
As I skip from word to word,
Sometimes hop,
Sometimes slacken my pace and take in a descriptive passage about sunlight filling up the room.

Words have a strange hold on my psyche
I keep enunciating the ones that my mind refuses to swallow and push into its depths-
Later throughout the day,
As if it is a piece of food stuck in my throat and I have to cough it out.

Words strung to create cities
And dreams,
Encounters and tragedies,
As we sit in the comfort of our homes,
Without having to go anywhere,
Watch events unfold,
Like my mother does every morning with the wrapping foil.

I feel a vicarious joy,
From reading of turbulations,
And the reaching of a resolution as
The novel nears its end:
My mind laps up every page in a hungry devour and I,
Fall asleep.

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