Turning the book over in my hands I wondered how many people must have handled it. To the unseeing eye, it was only an old, tattered book- unworthy of any praise. But a lover would know its worth. I wondered how many stories it held, apart from the printed one.
How many moments it treasured?
I love reading for all those well known reasons- for visiting unknown places, for the new eyes, new adventures, new friends, the knowledge, the wisdom. I love the musty smell, the sound of flipping a page, the feel of a book in your hands. I love it all!
But I love reading a borrowed book most. I love reading the tales hidden in them. Faded covers curling at the edges, browned papers… Finding a dried petal or flower in between the page connects you to some stranger-friend. Words scribbled on the edges and careless doodlings. Favorite passages marked and dog eared pages!
A stain here and a stain there, telling stories within a story. Chocolate marks, candy wrappers, names of lovers scribbled in tiny hearts drawn at the corner of a page. How many stories could a book tell? And how many could you read?
Wandering with Words 