HBS' Writing

Another rainy day.
The sky a very murky grey.
As my brother moans and groans
about how he can’t play football anymore,
I smile from my cosy armchair in the corner of the living room.
I stand up, going to the library.
As I can every single day,
rainy or not.
I walk between the towering shelves,
breathing in the familiar scent
of books.
But what does it exactly smell of?
Why, nobody can tell. It can smell of
the wet leaves after a rainy day,
or of freshly cut grass,
or even of coffee.
Each book smells and feels unique.
As I pick up a book from a shelf
randomly, like I always do,
I gently lift the cover
and begin from Chapter 1.
My mind leaves this world
and falls into the world of fiction,
of a girl called Alice,
who fell down a rabbit hole.
My mind falls with her,
down and down and down.
Until I have left the real world,
into another.
For as Alice grows larger
and shrinks,
my mind grows larger and shrinks
with her.
My mind follows the story as the rest of it unravels.
Alice meets the Duchess and the Cat and the Cook.
I do too.
The story continues
on and on.
And as Alice wakes up
and tells her sister about Wonderland,
I suddenly hear
the loud sound of my brother shouting
that he had scored a goal.
But I keep on reading.