FREYJA HOLLINGTON, 15

To the written word,

Confned to the papered walls of houses that were only a place of transition. A place for the quiet parts of our busy days; we grow sick of our homes. Once there was a time when we would dream of these spaces; yearn for the mattresses of our beds. Pine for the cushions of our sofas. But all good things turn sour, sickening, when they are in excess. And when you can’t leave your couch, can’t escape your bedroom. You begin to seek the hum of busy streets, the productive thrumming of quiet cafés, the chatter of a classroom and the overpowering scent of cofee that perfumes the workplace. Te mundane of everyday is no longer so tedious, when the everyday itself becomes abstract. Change brings fear, and so we want the comfort of familiarity. But wanting these things does not do us well. In the end, life is diferent now, and no amount of dreaming can put us back in the ofce, the classroom, the café, or the busy streets. So how do we cope? Well, when dreary weather prevented us from enjoying our gardens. When the terrible Wi-Fi kept us from calling those we missed. When the channels on the TV no longer gave us what we wanted. You held our hands and took us to new places. You had always been there: patient on the shelf or trapped

in a dusty box beneath the stairs, and we knew it. We had visited you before, captivated by your very nature. Enjoyed passing time with you beneath a chunky blanket, sipping a warm cup of tea. Yet we never fully appreciated you, not really, not until we were trapped ourselves. When the world was in chaos, we turned to your pages to fnd solace, comfort, and a place to escape crumbling reality. And you delivered. We saw new people, places, possibilities, and perspectives all through the lenses you created. We fought demons, solved murders, loved deeper than we knew ourselves capable. Cried, laughed, screamed, and shouted. Stayed up late to continue the journey, simply because we had not noticed the time passing. You existed not just in the inky evidence of yellowing pages, but in the voices of those most passionate heroes. You were the blade for those who sought to fght injustice and inequality, never silenced by the confnes of brick walls. You called out to us; allowed us to break the abnormal normality we had become frozen in. Inspired us. Encouraged us to speak up about the faults in society. So that when the cogs of the city began to turn once more, we knew what to fx. And what to break.

Te papered walls of our houses were no longer so confning. Te mattresses of our beds and cushions of our sofas not so frustratingly routine. We could endure the yearning for busy streets, quiet cafés, classrooms,

and ofces because they were no longer the places we truly wished to be. We found that, with you, time passed quicker. We enjoyed the days again and again. Each sunrise no longer like a tally on a cell wall, but the promise of something great and fantastical. As we near the return to some form of normal, somewhere besides our homes, I hope we do not forget what you have given us. Tough we may restore you to the shelf, to the box beneath the stairs, we will always understand the greatness you hold. Appreciate your brilliance.

Tank you.

“To me, Freyja’s letter represents the transformative power that books will forever have on humanity. Tat whilst the present may look bleak, they will always be there to soar us above our four sufocating walls into mesmerising worlds, as they have since time immemorial.”

Callum Roome, Volunteer Editor