I’ve gone in and out of the library more than a thousand times possibly. I’ve gone in and out of the book stores a hundred times possibly.
The first thing that anyone will notice is the stacked books on the rack. A couple of hundreds on them, motionless and yet calling out the names of the visitors, to be read. The tranquility and peace they have adapted to, and the calmness; the smell of those old and new papers mixing with the air, filling your heart with a new emotion.
There are so many of them, in the stores and the libraries waiting to be read. Some of them never read before. I wonder if those books are competing to be read, the papers waiting to feel the hands of a real person flipping through the pages and the words waiting to be grasped by the mind. They wait; some get taken away quickly, while others still wait; some are still waiting on those racks.
There are so many of them, sometimes they overwhelm you. That’s when I wonder, if they will ever be read, the stories written in between and the power within. But they have been read, read by their creators, those who have loved every nook and corner of them, all the words neatly typed across the blank pages, they have been read. They have been embraced by their creators, and they now stand above the competitions. It does not matter to them if they are taken away quickly or not; like matter they stand – invincible and indestructible because they are proud to exist, to have been placed on the racks, to have been created for the world to see, if not everyone, then a few.