Long ago I had this intense love to read books. I would lay my hands on any of them and read from front to end. For me reading was like a thirst, which was to be quenched with the purest and cleanest of water or liquid.
I didn't want this thirst to die nor did I want it to subside. I wanted to experience it for long life. As I became older this feeling started fading away unconsciously. I hadn't realized the closing hole. Now I have many, many books to read and yet I don't even lay one finger of mine on them! How did I become like this? I shock myself thinking over this.
I wish that I get that wonderful yearning back. Books were like drugs (in a good way). I can recall the love, interest and time I spent on even flipping through the pages. The letters etched, the twisted and abrupt plots, the characters who became people around me, the world of fantasies and the world of fear and the world of the new and the world of the old, they all consumed me as much as I let myself to be drowned.
I want to drown once again and again and again. I desperately seek to plunge into these clear and shadowy depths and to resurface back... just so that I can gulp in a lungful of evanescence and descend to its inviting bottom.
I may reach back to that stage but then again I think not. After all it forms just a small portion of what all we lost.
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