the familiar return

In moments of doubt and days grown cold,

We seek the warmth of stories told,

Familiar sights and scents unfold.

I swore I'd leave, but here I stand,

Back in my realm, book in hand.

After Tolstoy, Chekhov, Dostoyevsky's art,

Borges and Murakami left their mark upon my heart.

War & Peace, a mammoth read,

Yet still I followed where the pages lead.

Outside, the city moved too quickly.

Steel and glass stretched toward the sky,

while strangers hurried past one another

as though everyone belonged somewhere else.

The streets were crowded,

yet solitude found room to linger.

The cafés felt borrowed.

The neighbourhoods felt temporary.

Even familiar habits

seemed unable to find their footing.

So I returned to the shelves.

To voices waiting patiently between covers.

To Russian winters and Argentine labyrinths.

To lonely travellers,

wandering musicians,

and dreamers searching for hidden worlds.

The books had not changed.

Yet I had.

Some stories no longer dazzled.

Some pages felt quieter than before.

Even wonder seemed harder to reach.

But perhaps comfort was never found

in escape alone.

Perhaps it lived in recognition.

The relief of opening a familiar book

and finding that someone, somewhere,

had once felt equally lost.

A paragraph becoming a companion.

A sentence becoming a lantern.

A story becoming a place to rest.

The city outside continued its restless march.

Yet within those pages,

time slowed.

And for a little while,

I belonged somewhere again.

Back in my realm,

book in hand.