It was around midnight when I had the urge to finish the book I started in the morning,
on a bumpy cab ride, I opened the first page to mark it with my name,
the ride made my name look illegible,
a little less elegant, a little less cursive,
the words, as I discovered, were everything that my handwriting at the moment wasn't,
they were elegant,
full of life and what one could call, soul wrenching and thought-provoking,
my delight of discovering a new writer and the romance with his words came to an abrupt halt as I reached work,
after making a mental note of spending a sleepless night to finish it, I resumed my activities,
that midnight, however, was a different tale altogether,
a book I procured so carefully from a second-hand bookstore was nowhere to be seen,
scouring the bags, rooms and areas under the bed yielded no favourable result,
with disappointment writ large on my face, I took to venting out on all mediums I could find,
no amount of coaxing from my fellow readers eased me as I subjected my brain to a great deal of ridicule,
its forgetfulness, recklessness and the mere ability to leave a book in the cab was unforgivable,
but as my plight worsened, I ordered another copy of the book and decided to endure the long wait of seven days,
7 sunrises, 6 sunsets, I calculated, didn't seem long as I imagined engulfing myself in the words of that writer,
so right now, I have a new friend coming my way, sunshine in my pocket, and the thought of living and breathing new words,
I am an impatient reader again.
