A
confused myriad
Of
classics and honourable titles
Trilogies,
legacies, overrated sequels
As the
bookshelf grew taller
It's
sentimental value receded further.
"Read
this, you'll like it", they said.
"I
don't think so," I said.
"It's
famous", they justified.
Follow
the crowd, I interpreted.
I picked
up the famous book.
"Don't
read that,
Debut novels aren't a safe bet" they
said.
"I've
never heard of it before",
"Mustn't
be a good one then", they said.
I put
back the unknown book.
And the
shelf became populated
With
popular tales and renowned names
Some
liked, some struggled through
Simply to
pretend.
"How
was it?" they asked
"I
loved it!" I lied.
But I
didn't, I thought.
I just
read what the crowd suggested.
Books
relished alleviated and abated
As they
were piled onto my cart
For me,
by them.
"Do
you read?" they asked.
"Often,"
I said.
"Who
is your favourite author?"
"I
don't have a favourite," I said
"There
are simply too many."
But truth
insisted that wasn't the reason.
Reading
became an obligation
A chore,
a never-ending to-do list
Burdened
with a dormant liability
Genuine
intrigue fades
Until
I picked
up my own book.
Not
judging the cover.
Not
reading the author's name.
Not
looking for the newspaper mentions
Or its
prizes and awards.
Just the
Story.
For the
first time in years,
I had a
favourite book.
A book
that resonated within me.
A story
that I identified with.
"What
are you reading?" they asked.
"My
new favourite book," I said.
"Who
is it by?"
"A
debutant novelist."
"Are
you sure you'll like it?" they questioned.
"This
is my third time reading it."
I brought
the pages together and
Carried
the little unconventional book
To a
bookshelf full of similar unconventional books
A
bookshelf I could call
Mine
For the
first time in years.
That
inquisitive little bookworm
Would
definitely be proud of finding herself again.
And
eventually,
As I
narrated the nuances
Of the
novel so fondly nested in my bookshelf,
"They"
would learn to be proud as well.