If I had a weighing scale for everytime I wrote something against something I read, the writing matter would be this little chubby girl munching on a chocolate bar (as I do love chocolate, tremendously). Through the years, out of four siblings, I stood out the most – not because I was short but rather because I held no book in my hand. Today, the following is a little kinky secret I found out about myself.
I always knew that writing and I would make a good pair; we knew each other. My hands shake in nervous fits when I come near paper and pen, not knowing where this puppy kind of love would lead. When pen touches the surface of the paper, its as if my soul passed away finding its light. The darkness in me dies in these rays of words, each depicting a secret of some sort. On and on I write about my pariah that has been caged in silence through my moments on this earth, this pen and paper knows me well. A life partner, humbling my raging heart and taming it to listen to the silence of my scribbling hand. We don’t have a beginning or an end, this being our inside joke. We poke fun on people’s dismay that our ends have no ends. My block letters fight with the cursive, trying to understand their roles in the story, not knowing they are everything to me. Our paragraphs were these valentine cards to ourselves; content and matter that cause a little tingle when we read till the fullstop. We knew, we always did.
Nothing would tear us apart. Until, a book said “Hello”.
I said “Hello” back, rolling my eyes. I stood in the bookstore talking to this piece of bounded paper. I asked, “and, what do you want?” Not expecting a reply from such a thing, surprised in its response – “You.” Now, may I use such teenage vocabulary? I was pissed off, I mean how dare it! I slap it back with my head bobbing “excuse you?” Dark and calm it replies, “I said, I want you.” Enraged, cussing this tree excretion to its rightful place, I get interrupted by the book, “now now babydoll, I want you… I want you to read me.” Oh for the love of God, seriously? I retorted, “you’re not my type.” And then the damn thing falls open calling out in whispers, “try me”.
I had nothing to lose…but myself.
As I boldly open the book and begin to read its content, word after word it lured me to a familiar world. It’s lines resonated my thoughts in printed form. I found myself in momentum as I turned its pages. Heart racing in every twist and turn of the plot. I let it penetrate me as I experience the story in my head. I hold my pen as if enchanted by the book’s magic; I mark my favorite parts in circles and lines as it whispers “remember me remember me…” gliding away in the depths of the book. It’s villain battles with the good, enthusiastic with the evil’s defeat I hold tight on to the edges of this hard bound cover. The soul of this book stirring into mine as moments away from the end, I get interrupted.
“Ma’am, this is not allowed here. Purchase the book to read, please” instructed the bookstore staff.
So there I was, sitting in a bookstore when it dawned upon me. I am in a literary love affair.