Turning through the pages you come to a point where the tinted characters of the story start talking to you. Every reader must have experienced this.
We seldom realise how much we get from these books. Apart from the knowledge and history, it’s the journey that we are able to be a part of. The orange pages that hold, the told and untold chapters of infinite lives.
I miss those tea stains, I miss getting lost in those mysterious plots…
I miss being in love with those fictional characters,
those late night cravings to know who the fuck is the murderer!!
And most of all, I miss being a part of so many stories, said through those orange pages.
The difference between reality and fantasy vague and you start searching for a ‘Noah’ in every guy, or become a ‘Sherlock’ for every lost paperclip.
Everything you feel is either written or said or carved.
Like you are reliving something that’s already been lived!
A cliché intertwined in a bundle of more hundred clichés…