She didn’t have the courage to do anything outrageous or courageous, or something that would make her heart beat accelerate, at a treacherous rate.
No, that’s what her books were for.
They took her to places she’d never been to, they made her experience things she’d never experienced and feel emotions she’d never felt before.
They were her intercedors to exploration.
They were her dreams and aspirations, never to be fulfiled.
They were her secret lands to visit when she wanted to shut the curtains over a life where the balance had tipped and everything was crumbling down.
They were her beautiful worlds. World’s that she could watch, like an outsider, and never be expected of anything, never be questioned about her descisions, never to be judged on the basis of her looks.
A book was like a world where anything could happen.
A book was like an escape to a land of dazzling beauties, knights in shining armour and treacherous beasts. A land where good would always conquer evil.
A land that beat reality in all its faces.
A land that could never, ever be true.