If I were a book, you could flip through my pages to underline the favorite things about me,
fold my page corners or bookmark them and tell your friends about how wonderful I am.
You would save me in a bookshelf next to your bed where you come to escape reality
and dream of things that make you happy.
You would read me again and again as if I were the only book you’ve got
and you would take me everywhere with you because I would make you
happy with the way I choose words for you and how sweetly you
would let them flow through my papers.
“This post is a part of the prompt of the week, IF I WERE A BOOK, by The BlogChatter online community of bloggers in Twitter which meet every Wednesday at 8.30 PM IST discussing various blogging topics on twitter.”
I write a lot, which keeps me off the streets and out of trouble. There is always something to write about, always a new story to craft. Not writing, for me, is like trying to hold back a sneeze. Learning to write was the most powerful influence in my life. I can still remember the awe I felt when I realized I could put real words onto paper and tell out a story. From that first ‘a-ha’ moment I knew I wanted to write.
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