Her table is adorned with a variety of books kept in a disarray.
Books that take her away.
Away from a reality that she doesn't want to live.
There she is, lying in her bed, totally worn out, as if her bones would never bend, her muscles would never stretch, and breathing, too, would slowly become an arduous task.
The pages are screaming, calling her name. Her bedroom is filled with the aroma of new and old pages.
The screams get loud. Her books that have always been her respite, are dying for her to open them with her curious glittering eyes and a long sigh of calm. Even though the screams reach her ears, they fail to make her sit and pick one book from her huge, messy collection.
How very exhausted she is!
The mixed scent of the beige-like crinkly pages and the new fresh ones, reach her nostrils. For a moment, she feels alive again.
But even this mighty fragrance that once used to make her jump with passion and joy, fails to persuade her to get up and open a book.
Oh, how very tired she is of struggling, of toiling, of trying to solve the unsolvable chaos of life, and of attempting to face the overwhelming challenges of the real world!
Oh, how she dies every day to sit in her bed, cozily under the covers, and choose a book from her huge pile of treasure and forget herself in the stories of the characters who begin to live less in those books and more in her heart, the moment she starts meeting them in her world.
—Amrit Versha
