There's something about stacks of books concentrated in one place - be it a book case at home, a library or a giant bookseller's store front. It has an almost surreal feel to it, like each of those books have in them, built in tunnels leading us to a parallel world. As I struggle here to write a few words everyday. Each book in there feels like an entity of its own, and I sit here and marvel at the collective human intellect and the miracle that 'us' the species are.
I feel super blessed for little reasons - one of which being this - that we have a huge, I mean HUGE bookseller in the neighborhood.. I enjoy walking to the place, latte in hand, devouring the smell of new print and wafting aroma of coffee beans in the neighboring coffee shop. As I skim through the isles, the sheer overload of these stacks of books leaves me enthralled as I wonder why keeping the simple commitment of writing everyday of November feels like a Herculean task.
Aye, aye, aye!
