Ever since I've known how to read I've always treated books more as teachers than friends. Their voice has always assumed a superiority above my own. But something happened yesterday afternoon. Something that I've never experienced all this while with books. The book I finished last was still echoing its few words very subtly in my unconscious. I went up to my shelf, opened it up and got the book out. At the last page of the book I wrote down a few words of my own. The journey then became a new beginning from an old end. My voice was now added to the book's. My tiny shadowy footsteps through the pages disappeared into its spine. The conversation continued with those few freshly written words and now I await the answer.
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