Hideaway

Sometimes I wish we live near the beach and I’ll have my very own spot where I can hole up anytime. It would be a big rock where I can easily climb and watch over the infinite crashing of waves upon waves. A place where I could feel the warm golden sand beneath my toes and the warm sun on my back. And where I could taste the salt permeating the air and feel the cool sea breeze blowing against my skin. Then I would shut out the rest of the world and have a quiet conversation with myself. That is my idea of a perfect hideaway. But I don’t live anywhere near the beach. I live in some cramped subdivision where the thought of a hideaway like that is a far distant dream. But I make do. Instead of the beach I have my room. I have books, movies and music. I climb in my bed and settle in my pillows. Then I grab a book and squeeze in between the comfort of those black lines of the print. Sometimes I find myself in the middle of a Quidditch match or witnessing a grisly murder or alongside a pilgrim on the road to Santiago. Or sometimes I grab the remote, turn on the TV and crawl in between those vivid scenes. I get tangled up in the dramas of those conjured characters. I laugh, cry, dream and bleed with them. Or sometimes I slip in the soothing notes or crashing crescendos of sound over an emotional terrain of broken hearts, new found love, lives and whatnots. I hide for a brief or even imagined moment to get away from the stifling world but mostly I hide to seek myself.