I sweep into Barnes and Noble with 3 hours, 47 minutes and 22 seconds till closing. And nearly swoon at the sight of a multitude of pages: ink pressed firmly into snow-white once-trees, spines bound both thick and thin, clovers gleaming.
Shiny, new books.
I head straight for the YA section. Stroke a few titles, eye the covers, skim the blurbs. Marvel at the newness and wonder if they're...if they're...I wonder if in between those straight papers and smeared black lines, there's magic waiting to be discovered. Every time I pick up a book, I have this hope that it will turn out to be that book. The book that I won't be able to stop thinking about. The book that I'm awed to read. The book that I wish I could read again and again and again.
So many choices. Rows of teeming novels, stacked haphazardly, all promising something, whispering their stories that they itch to tell. But I have to choose. My hand hovers over a few I wish I could pick up, but I tell myself, next time...the very next...
When I've loaded myself up with one-to-many books to carry, the sides and the corners poke into my arms. Me, staggering under the weight of thousands of words, as I toddle off in search of a seat. Pages of stories. Death, love, happiness, magic, angst, everything. A whole world. Waiting.
Further sidling. Comfy chair number 1 taken. Comfy chair number 2 taken. Comfy chair number 3 taken. I begin to despair.
But eventually, I find a secluded corner. The music is distracting at first; the elevator kind that jangles and encroaches. The sounds of people chattering and the low hum of blenders at the cafe envelops me.
I pick up a book. Open it, so that it lays flat, the spine crunching ever so slightly since it's been the first time anyone's read it. The cramped words sprawl over the pages, exhibiting a bizarre sort of beauty. And I begin.
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