In the quiet corners of the library, where the scent of aged paper lingered like a delicate perfume, there I found my sanctuary. The books, with their spines lined up like soldiers at attention, beckoned me to explore the worlds contained within their pages. I approached them with reverence, as one might approach the altar of knowledge, ready to partake in the sacred ritual of reading.

I ate them like salad, crisp and refreshing, each page a leaf of lettuce bursting with the flavors of far-off lands and long-gone times. Books were my sandwich for lunch, layers of history and fantasy pressed together in a delicious amalgamation of prose and poetry. My ‘mungunzá ‘—a feast of words that filled my soul as much as my belly—was dinner and midnight munch, a sustenance that nourished my mind through the darkest hours.

With fervor, I tore out the pages, seasoned them with the salt of my curiosity, and drenched them in the relish of imagination. I gnawed on the bindings, savoring the resilience of narratives that bound together the human experience. I turned the chapters with my tongue, tasting the sweet and bitter twists of plot, the umami of complex characters, and the tang of dramatic revelations.

Books by the dozen, the score, the billion, I carried them home, a trove of treasures that weighed down my back but lifted my spirit. I was hunchbacked for years, a small price to pay for the wealth of wisdom cradled in my arms.

Philosophy, art history, politics, social science—the poems, the essays, the grandiose plays—they all became a part of me. I started speaking the language of the flowers, each petal a word in the dialect of beauty and growth. I conversed with the wisdom of the winds, their whispers carrying the secrets of the ages.

Copyright © Beatriz Esmer