My mind races around the idea that maybe being trapped is a reversible state of being; that I can create my own freedom, even within the pages of this book. Bound by the limited words on the page, imprisoned by the prescribed plot, I think of the possibility that I may write my own story. The wind of turning pages plays with the strands of wild strawberry hair dancing around my face, and I am reminded that of the fast-turning pages of my own life. The ink-black words, lined up like soldiers, roll across the musty nutmeg paper, which is soft and dog-eared from loving over-use. I tumble through time, from page three to page one-hundred-and-three, gazing at obscure footnotes hardly ever read, and chapter headlines read far too much. From hard cover to hard cover, I suddenly realize that I am not in a personal prison, but in a personal sanctuary.