Dear black book,

Hidden behind your neutral black cover are millions of words and thousands of stories. Swipe, scroll and click. Your infinite appetite devours anthologies, series and novels alike. With pages as white as paper that cannot be folded, muddied or damaged, you change the way people think of books. Veering away from sagging wooden shelves and forgotten aisles, you are probably the future of libraries.

You’re the hero of the sustainable revolution, encouraging the eco-friendly warriors to market the paperlessness of your digital world. Uncomfortably balanced between the fingers of my co-passenger on my short regular journey to work, you fiercely guard the anonymity of the story you share. I stare at the blackness of the cover in an attempt to know what you might be narrating today. Is it a tragedy from a long-forgotten past or a science fiction? Are you talking about someone we know or a fictional hero brought to life? Is it the truth or an imaginary world? I will never know because I cannot see your face.

On the other hand, I hold a book made of paper with a cover so vivid that the letters seem to scream for attention. Hues of red and violet crashing into each other and escaping through the gaps in my hold. Completely consumed in the narrative I’m ignorant towards the general rhythm of the train I’m on. Pockets of unoccupied space in the chaotic rumble allow for little peeks. As I suddenly become aware of my surroundings again, my destination not too far now I feel a small tap on my shoulder and hear a rush of words. “This is a brilliant book!”

I’m now on the platform. The words and the voice have both departed, passengers of the train I was once aboard. A conversation ended before it could even begin. And yet, there it was the glimmer of a possible conversation, a start. And all that was needed was that recognisable book, the flamboyant book cover.

Once again, I am aboard a train and this time on a longer journey than my short work commute. The train is less chaotic, with only a few people around me. I’ve settled into a seat, surrounded by all the things you need on a long journey, with my nose buried in the pages with intricately woven characters. A story that not only demands your attention but every ounce of your consciousness and imagination. Light and shadow playing around me like distant and imperceptible music. A paragraph leaps at me with its powerful description of the surroundings, slowly building up in my head like a lifelike oil painting. Another cover this time, subtle and yet strong.

“This book is my absolute favourite. How far have you come along in the story? “

A simple question. A start to a friendly conversation. A long lonely journey now easier with a friendly smile. A sense of comfort as we share the common table in front of us.

The sun plays hide-n-seek with the clouds. Warm and meekly bright, a perfect day. I nestle into the base of the tree trunk, holding my book. The high contrast of golden letters on a navy blue cover reflects the sunlight. I pause to look up and catch the same golden letters across me under the base of another tree. They notice my gaze and smile back, having spotted the book in my hands. As we sit in our little corners of the park, we share a story between us. There are no shared words, just the knowledge of knowing the same story.

Sky coloured in shades of purple, the light slowly dims. As we walk out, we smile and nod at each other, acknowledging the shared space in the world of books.

Dear Black Book,

Once upon a time, we made a pact to exchange books. We scheduled monthly book club meetings to exchange our stories. We went out to explore old library sales and antique book stores. We loved stumbling upon unwritten stories of people who owned the books at second-hand book stores. We promised to leave behind a similar trail. We looked forward to the next day.

But now everything is lightning fast and in the moment. Today, I can share a story with thousands, connect with a large group of people, discuss with colleagues from across the world. I am only a click away from my book club meeting, but I remember I have got a chore as well. So I join on my phone. We can hear each other but only half-listen at all times. I did not see you nodding at my comment, nor did you see me smile at one of the jokes. We do not make plans. We share links now. We explore second-hand book stores online but never share the stories we find inside those old books anymore.

Black or white, small and light, you slip into bags easily and fit all hands. You make reading easy as I jump from a flight to a train. You let me carry multiple books on my long journeys. You make the world a little smaller. Why then do I still crave the paper between my fingers?