Impatient Reader.

It was around midnight when I had the urge to finish the book I started in the morning,

on a bumpy cab ride, I opened the first page to mark it with my name,

the ride made my name look illegible,

a little less elegant, a little less cursive,

the words, as I discovered, were everything that my handwriting at the moment wasn’t,

they were elegant,

full of life and what one could call, soul wrenching and thought-provoking,

my delight of discovering a new writer and the romance with his words came to an abrupt halt as I reached work,

after making a mental note of spending a sleepless night to finish it, I resumed my activities,

that midnight, however, was a different tale altogether,

a book I procured so carefully from a second-hand bookstore was nowhere to be seen,

scouring the bags, rooms and areas under the bed yielded no favourable result,

with disappointment writ large on my face, I took to venting out on all mediums I could find,

no amount of coaxing from my fellow readers eased me as I subjected my brain to a great deal of ridicule,

its forgetfulness, recklessness and the mere ability to leave a book in the cab was unforgivable,

but as my plight worsened, I ordered another copy of the book and decided to endure the long wait of seven days,

7 sunrises, 6 sunsets, I calculated, didn’t seem long as I imagined engulfing myself in the words of that writer,

so right now, I have a new friend coming my way, sunshine in my pocket, and the thought of living and breathing new words,

I am an impatient reader again.