Warriors, like heroes, come in different forms. They appear when you need them, to champion your cause, and they have your back. They don’t always carry swords or spears. Sometimes, they arrive on the scene armed with their weapons of creation: weapons which help build one up rather than those designed to cut someone else down.
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?