Books have a rare magical ability to take you to places beyond your imagination. This place is in fact someone else’s imagination. And in this, I believe, lies the beauty and magic of books. It connects you with someone else’s mind. Someone you have never met, someone you may never meet. But by reading that someone’s book, you have found a gateway to their imagination, their strange world. How beautiful is that! All our lives we spend trying to understand one another, trying to understand ourselves, trying to understand human beings in general. But a single book of maybe a few hundred pages lets you look into someone. Books give you that chance, the chance that all of us are looking for. A chance to live in someone else’s mind. Is that not magic? Is that not real, genuine, true and absolutely mesmorising magic?

How carefully, how intricately people have written their stories. How beautifully have they created their worlds through words and emotions and deep strong love. How secretively have they woven in their dark painful scars, which go almost unnoticed in their stories. How smartly have they dyed their books with the reflection of our world in theirs- our hypocrisy, our lies and our guilt. How romantically have they added the last few stitches of young, mushy, blushing love in their stories. It is magic, my friends. Pure magic, staring at you as you contemplate on picking up a book at the store and then put it back in the shelf,  realising you have to be somewhere else, somewhere much more important.


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