Just for one day

"It's funny how time can make a place shrink,make the strangeness of it all seem ordinary"

Half a butterfly wing buried in gravel,
An empty bag pack and the last lunch box ever.
The last one minute of silence spent  staring at OMG carved out on the wooden desk top.
The day feels infinitesimal and infinite at the same time,which is kind of symbolic of how school feels on the whole,maybe.
The waking up- and -sulking about it being Monday morning,always running a second too late for assembly,scribbling a few sentences at least of last night's home work,dancing at the end of last period on Friday,loving the contents of your neighbour's lunchbox more than yours,struggling not to giggle in the assembly line,making up intellectual quotes for the thought for the day,Bullshit-ing through the tests and bunking in the hide out.Oh,and special mention to all the lost stationery that strangely disappeared each day.It all seems so stretched out it becomes normal.In the end,it always seems so surreal and the finality never hits you on time.
And all the hurried scribbling on t-shrts and notebooks on how much you'll miss your class mates can never come close to describing that feeling of knowing there is a definite end,and awaiting it but not quite a anticipating the swiftness at which it seems to have arrived.You'll never wake up groggy at 7 am running for the same kind of normal anymore and you'll probably not see a lot of the same people again or have the chance to know them better and that's overwhelmingly bitttersweet.

Second hand book collection

To know that a stranger's hands once leafed through the same pages,and smelled the same scent  of a new
heaven hidden in these pages of print.

To know that someone out there had their heartbeat stop to the same words,the same syllables that take your breath away,

Death doesn't exist for these tattered books,neither does oblivion,they will live in multiple memories for years to come,and create new ones,passed on from generation to generation.The same little details  and reading in between the lines will make another kid smile in the years to come.

Sure,they belonged to someone else once who now betrayed them,but it was a betrayal for the better,

because it only means they will get newly christened again,learn that love will find them,and someone will make them their own.At the same time,preserve their identities,creases and folds and different stages of yellow complexions accompanied by age.

Holding them,piled up tall,close to my chest..I have this feeling.It's indelible.Here I am,looking at disowned or half-owned books looking at me,here I am,invited back to the land of magic.I stand staring at half of my childhood..spent in these stores and those long afternoons sprawled over these books that gave me the endless want of these books.

Trying to justify this feeling is like trying to answer why some families are happier than others,or why the sky drapes itself in funny colours at dusk  some days.There might be answers,but the mystery is the most beautiful part.Keeping it alive is love.

Like old souls they charm lives,sometimes,with the previous owner's name and other details scrawled on the front page,sometimes even a date.Like wine and cheese,they are better consumed grey.

A gift from a stranger without their knowledge,almost miraculous.Have you ever found yourself talking to a stranger standing next to you,assuming they were your friend and wondering what that person's thoughts are like?

Ever wanted to see all the stars at once,or desire to know all the people of the world with their stories and craved to make an impression on someone you din't know? There is such dignity in meeting a stranger,such grace in discovering the impersonal comfort that strangers offer?

Trying to fit in an entirety into an instant and preserving a still frame of a universal feeling.

Always a fan of living in the yesterdays,my eyes fill up with joy at the sight of these books,stacked in shelves,stuffed in cardboard boxes or lining the streets in an array.

Selling second hand books is not just selling stories,

it's selling the souls of strangers,to strangers,

weaving an uncanny kind of unity.