I think stories were one of the things that kept me alive as a kid. That sounds dramatic, and I’m rolling my eyes at myself as I write this, and yet they were the biggest, best, most needed escape from reality. Be it sailing down the river with swallow and amazons, or at moonacre with the little white horse, or my absolute favourite in those years, at hogwarts with Harry Potter (because I was a 90s kid). They were an escape, somewhere else to be, they were safety and fun, and sometimes tearful. They were what you needed when you needed it.
I went through a major phase (although I admit I still mostly do this now, just with other books) of carrying around one of the Harry Potter books with me wherever I went. Even if just to the shop 5 mins down the road, there was something so safe and protective about having the weight of the book on my lap. Of being able to feel the pages and just open it up and be somewhere completely different.
I lived in my head for a few years, and the world in my head was always a bit of a combination of all of the places I read about…They really did just offer a much needed escape.
This is a bizarre post, I’m sorry.