The words are an escape.

They're like a drug that whisks you away;

To another world, another life, another love

The scent of its pages in the wind,

The kind only a book can muster.

With the sea of its words, on the pale pages, carrying you on.

The smell itself is an anchor,

An anchor tying you to the world of make believe,

It stands as a reminder, counting the seconds that pass

A reminder, that the world ends when the pages are shut.

That the characters on the pages were never alive

You hold the paper pages in shaking hands

As reality takes it hold, grasping and pulling you back.

You pause,

Because you know that you can pretend

If you close your eyes, just for a second, you can pretend it's real;

Pretend it's not your life you're coming back to,

Pretend it was all real and this is the story,

But you don't because this is your life, here and now,

Every second that ticks is yours, passing you by

You know you can't keep going there to escape

Because it'll always come back to this;

Paper pages and shaking hands,

Tears, traumas and losses.

But books can't teach you everything,

The one thing you don't know is that

The things in fictions and stories, they do come true,

Heroes in the night, no, they're not real,

Everyone knows they're not real.

But sometimes you don't have to close your eyes to believe,

Sometimes the words are not just an escape,

They're a reality, something you can feel and smell

Something that when you close the pages,

The tale continues, this times there's no more, no less.

No paper pages or nor shaking hands.

Because that's all life is in the end, a story.