Mood

The sun glistens off the snow and peers into the living room window. Not too bright,just enough to set the mood. Easygoing, relaxing.

My books lie boldly in the light of the windowsill. They are calling me to run my fingers along their spines. Soak in all there plots and character and worlds, breathe in every word, every syllable.

They lay untouched, but wanted. The sun’s spotlight shines on the top book; “Wake.” It was a gift, but I didn’t start it because I was reading something else. But now, in this lighting, in this mood. It seems so appealing.

My eyes craves its words like a man craves a woman’s curves.

Though besides my books was my journal. My pencil bookmarking the last page I worked on. I took a glimpse outside. My neighbor is making figure-eights with his bike in the parking lot. Kids I have class with walk the back road laughing not particularly dressed for winter. And the woman across the street was ordering her husband to shovel the snow “correctly.”

Books call my name. Yet I seldom answer because the words I have locked away in my mind tries to claw their way out. It would be inhumane to keep them trapped up there. I grabbed my journal, letting a finger linger in the cover of Wake before heading to the table where I can drink up all that goes on around me, and release them on my pages.

This feels about right, a perfect way to spend the day according to the mood that’s set.