Literature has a way of creeping up on you. You spend years nose deep into books, burning the midnight oil. Tired red eyes refusing to give up without a fight. Tracing each word from cover to cover, you roam into a word unknown. The closed doors or the veil of shame, the mad woman, and the magical circus. The treasure, the glass slipper, or the Geisha who tells her tale. The secrets of the world are ever unfolding, all you need to do is enter with your head held high
With every journey and the turning of each page, you succumb to its charm. You aim for the uncharted roads and mysterious alleyways. The dusty pages cease to give you pleasure, heart yearning for a poem unfinished.
That’s when you move beyond the mundane rules of a life bound by paperbacks and ebooks. You delve into sad eyes hidden behind the brightest smiles. No more reading between the lines, you read tales of woe on painted lips. The wrinkles of a face and the calloused hand are but a novel waiting to be written. You unveil the black and blue underneath the creamy foundation; each scar a witness to the horrors of the dark.
You see, literature tends to capture your soul. The thirst remains unquenchable, its hunger overpowering your own. You fall deeper into the midst of untrodden pathways. The sound of each stumbling step echoing as you cross the threshold of the phantasm