Papyrus Musings

Books,
for some people
are like
the memories that
they might have
missed on making
along the way.

Just like memories,
Some of them get etched
in your soul
forever;
Some come back
to comfort you
when you’re lonely;
To give you
hope, camaraderie
dreams and visions;
Others threaten to
haunt you eternally

Life,
it changes you.
You might mourn
for that child who
didn’t make it through
the ordeal of time.

But when you
occasionally
flip through
the well thumbed pages
of a much loved paperback,
the child comes to life;
Once again,
you remember the
wide eyed speculations,
the exhilarating sense of marvel
that coursed through ever inch
of that diminutive body.

Of course,
it’s just a wistful reminiscence-
a nostalgic reminder
of how you perceive those
same words, fables and tales
in a different way now.
It makes you conscious
of how the years have treated you.

The ink might be
telling the story
that the writer wanted the
world to know,
but, the pages-
They tell the story
of the hands that
turned them, folded them;
Of the bookshelves, couches
and window ledges that they’ve
rested on.
They narrate the
tale of a lifetime

The book-
It’s your link
to your being.
In your kaleidoscopic life,
its a steady boulder,
sheltering memories that
you might have, otherwise
forgotten to cherish.