As I was unpacking my bags in the new apartment in Germany, I came across the notebook in which I write all my poems. I hadn’t touched that one in quite some time, not even to read my mostly teenage angst-inspired, and sometimes surprisingly grown-up poems. This thought gave me pause; what had I written the last time I was here?
It’s strange how I’ve never written anything, anywhere, about books, considering that I practically devour them in a matter of a few hours, at one go. I can never decide what is closer to my heart—books or travel. They keep exchanging places and taking the Numero Uno spot turn by turn. I shouldn’t be surprised though; after all, aren’t books a way of travelling to a different place too?
It started, as it usually does, with a trip. The thing with these romances is, that you can clearly remember the first moment you saw that person. So do I.
I was in a bus with a bunch of others, most of who were affected by motion sickness. I was passing my time trying to rouse people enough to play some sort of a game when, out of the blue, a hand appeared in my field of vision.