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The Living Books

By

Hareem Syed

I was never into reading books, it is still a hard nut to crack for me. I remember how I once tried to read that one romantic novel and every time I would open it, its pages would bring such a soothing mildness but with a lot of exhaustion. I don’t know if it’s just me or reading books is actually overrated. Nevertheless, I truly admire those who are excellent readers. But besides, departed into the depths of fantasy, we often never give importance to the active books we’re surrounded by. And that’s what “I” love to read.

The books that aren’t solely an imagination. The books in which the chapters do not require amendments since they are not drafted. They just happen. One after another. They’re rough because they have not been shaped by humans in a smooth patterns, they go all edition-free. They’re raw not because the characters aren’t embellished with artificially assembled beauty but the beauty that is already there, inborn. And here by living books, I mean people. People who do not come in just different shapes, sizes and colours but there are more variances beyond that we never put a light on.

Plenty of identical definitions of life and millions of unique phases. Countless and untold scenarios along with the oceans of emotions. From built-in twists and tactics to the consequences under the curtains of mystery, chaos and secret barriers.

What shivers me even more sometimes is that all of them occupy stories we can not even assume to get a glimpse of and these stories somehow have an impact on us, may it be in any way, but they do! These books also have everything  that a normal book has.

The colourful title is their smile, the thick and thin pages are their happenings of life unbreakbly fabricated by pain, ease, happiness and grief and the attractive climax (es) of them are their mood swings. The stories that walk and talk in front of us but we don’t bother to look at them this way. The untold folding of drama, thrill and suspense behind a statue (not dead) and incidents covered in a clay made up of flesh and blood.

The crystal clear eyes above the expression of unsaid ideas. The gleeful laughter (s) ahead of narratives and a complete new human behind. How ironic it seems when in libraries you see the books of reality are searching for a book that is a myth. How magical is that, without even fond of reading , one can read numerous books that do not just astonish us but also encourage us to learn and experience the events, live. Mesmerizing! And the best part is that these books will keep you paralyzed till the end because of the hands tied, one simply can not jump to the last words by skipping pages and make a judgment out of it. Hence, every episode would be a “must read”. And yes;

“This world is merely a fiction for me, and the humans are my living books”. 

 

 

 

The blog was originally posted in our magazine. 

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