Turn the Page

I have often wished that I lived a breathless lifestyle, ripe with scandal and lush with drama.

I don’t, however. My life is the usual distant hum of daily existence. Adherence to the grind of routine, and sighing boredom from the tired conversations and words repeated until they no longer have any coherent meaning. The same actions performed on almost a daily basis, from the smallest and most insignificant (turning on the kettle for tea) to the chores that need to be performed. Of course, there is variation – I do go out, I interact and communicate with people, and every day is not a reflection of the last.

It all just seems so… banal.

I suppose this is why I love to read so much. There’s nothing like a rousing adventure, or a gripping thriller to take me someplace else. I feel sorry for people who don’t read, or who don’t enjoy reading.

One of the greatest gifts my mother has given me, is a love of books. I cannot recall what dolls or other games I received as presents on special occasions, but I do remember each and every gift of books I have received. I cannot recall first conversations with past lovers, but I do remember wonderful stories that I have read.

I happily pass by shoe stores, jewellery stores or boutiques whilst shopping, but I cannot, simply cannot, walk past a bookstore without browsing.  There is something about the smell and feel of a book that invokes powerful emotions inside me.

New books, with their unbent spines and crisp white pages have a sense of promise and mystery to them, a sparkle that sends a frisson of excitement through me. New books have an enthusiasm and vibrance about them, they are filled with possibility.

Old books, on the other hand, make me ache with a yearning for history. They sometimes leave me with a powerful urge to continue the tale, to write and write so that the story will not end.

I love to find old books with words of dedication and well wishes written inside the covers. Even if the book is not one that I will read again and again, those few thoughts written by a stranger’s hand, to another stranger’s heart, remain with me as I read each page.



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