I’ve lived in whose lines, they know every uncanny secret and my dark side , they’re the trips I’ve dreamed of taking and all the maps left unfolded.
The books she read have made her acquaintance on quiet evenings with a cup of coffee and been with her when she was a broke and lived in an unfathomed universe of fantasy.
She’s been to those great sea voyages, romanticizing every storm to grow mightier, she knows she has lived in a world in which no one wants to believe.
She’s been to those unattended parties, the hidden passages down the mountains , she has lived a 100 lifetimes, kissed death ironically in a dead calm evening.
She created a paradise on that old wooden shelf, that her father gifted her on her 15th birthday and that lay in the corner of the room, still fresh and dusted.
She has photographed every journey with just few stains of ink on those pages.
Her feet, slightly numb , likewise the heaviness carried on by a cloud, with no sign of rain. but her eyes on those gorgeous faces, she discovered in those pages.
There was a joint venture of two souls on the either side of those pages, like she was water and the books were the ones who contain her.
She was the protagonist of her symphony and her catastrophe.
Ten years from now, she’s at the same place with the same old wooden shelf, but with a pen in her hand, imprinting the words written on the canvas of her mind into the blank pages , which turned out to be just 3 words –
“My first Draft”