When life starts seeming to be a book, each day would seem to be a page. Each image on it would be of someone whom we have come across in life. The words would be written with a non-erasable ink of hopes and desires.
When I keep turning the pages, a strong urge develops in me to turn them back though I know that it wouldn’t last forever. Each time I read those lines they seemed to puzzle me more and the words unwrapped to give me new meanings but the secret never flowed out.
I could see castles of future neatly drawn with desires. Neither could I tear those pages nor erase those words as I knew that they are the ones which constituted my book. Each time I unfolded those dog-eared pages some others emerged and kept me engaged.
I knew that it was necessary to keep me moving. I wasn’t aware how many I had left with me but I knew that I would never run out of my ink and that there have to be more pages for my words to be true.
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coffee table 