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The book was better

Are you/ were you at some point an avid reader? 

Then you must have quipped "the book was better" more than once.


As a dancer, I learnt early on how one expresses with every tiny gesture. With a pen in my hand, thick sheets of paper underneath, being able to put words to my expressions makes me feel alive. Maybe my eyes do tell a story, but its often the ink that intricately elaborates it.


Words, thus, are an insight into an author's life. Written pieces, even the smallest sentence, of pure fictional origin, somehow draws its first breath from its writer. The pen is fuelled with ink dipped in experiences that left the writer's soul parched or inspired. 


If you are nodding your head, or agreeing to this someway, then the rest of the blog would be much relatable. If you have any questions, you may turn back or continue to read with skepticism surrounding every word henceforth. 


If writing, the act of creating narratives from an expression or idea, is personal, then reading is even more personal. When you open a book, an imaginary cloud engulfs you. The black (or any colour) ink seems to hold you in its invisible spaces, luring you with textures, tastes and smells. You can envision the world you are reading about with details that may not be captured in photographs. 


As children, these worlds were often surreal. Flying houses and chairs, elves and fairies, talking trees, secret lives of inanimate objects, all seem natural. Gravity is manipulable and a visitor to these worlds. As we grow up, see things, read the science behind it, gather knowledge, learn the ability to reason, our worlds in our heads become more grounded. They start taking on the colours we surrounds ourselves with in real life. Wardrobes full of memory, immediately play 'Join the Dots' between the fictional world and real world. The neons get replaced with pastels slowly. The skies absorbing the grey as a natural overlay than the bright light blue.

Amidst all the chaotic transformations, a ray of light often escapes. The belief in magic lost to the days of childhood, trickles down from this straw like tunnel of light. Through this tunnel enter the unbelievable stories of lands beyond our regular comprehension. Lands and worlds, beyond our imagination, cosying up in the tiny corner. And now whenever we read and let the tiny bright corner guide us instead of reason, the unimaginable world expands a little, spreading its colour slowly to grey-est sectors in our head. Soon the black ink starts oozing colour. You allow Gravity to go off on vacation every once in a while. The words no longer hold you down, but add feathers to your newly acquired wings.

Click, tick and BAM!


A world of grey monotones on your 13" or 31" screens. All the colour starts fading again. Gravity returns with a fierceness, that even walking seems like a burden. Wings wither away in its tucked and tied state. Words become a song in the distance, out of tune. The tiny bright corner in your head losing its vigour. The screens become bigger, the world in your head hollower. The blackness of the screen seeping  into every colourful aspect of your imagination. 


And then you come across a story on this black screen, wearing your all black attire. A story you faintly remember having a rendezvous with decades ago. Flashbacks are small and quick. Imagery though in short spurts, is vivid and colourful. That is all your black hole memory lets you see... and all you can say watching the story fade into grey-ness...
"The book was better"......

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