There is just something about a battered old book that is irresistible. There is a distinct scent that clings to it. It is a scent that makes you think of the good old days. It is a scent that makes you feel lonely. It is a scent that arouses memories. It is a scent that arouses the wanderlust in you. It is a scent that makes you want to at once run wildly and curl up around a warm fire with a cup of hot tea. It is a scent that ah! cannot be described. It can only be felt. It is a shot of pure adrenaline. It is a touch of euphoria. It is confusion. It is emotion. It is a paradox. It seems to be telling a story other than that printed on its leaves. It reels you in. It beckons you to solve the mystery it carefully guards; and when you pick up the book with its crispy leaves and warped edges you feel like you are about to enter another world; that you are, in the strangest of ways, entering someone’s life. You feel like you are about to collide with a stranger.
Every little insignificant detail making you wonder about the man who beheld this treasure before. You look at the faded words wondering if someone cried to sleep reading it. Then you wonder what happened. You wonder at the meaningless scribbles in the margins, trying to decipher them in the hopes of unraveling the mystery behind. Sometimes there is a name, sometimes an address but always there is a little piece of that person left behind. What a strange way to meet a stranger!
Author: Maryam Atta
You, my Reader, why do you read these words? What do you see in them? Every letter closes with a thought and no letter ends without a reply. My Reader, your reply will forever be awaited. In the meantime, like to appreciate us, follow to honor us, comment to encourage us, share to flatter us.
The Weaver (@theweavrs) July 13, 2016
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License.