A dusty old book in a library is no longer picked up

It sits patiently waiting for the next hand to reach out and grab it

A curious mind walks by, makes a stop, and gives the cover a chance

Once the dust is blown off the cover it gets parted down the middle

Here, the bookmark vector reserves the page of the last reader

The pages are a faded beige and its lettering is a calligraphic font

If the book was not discovered by that fortunate soul,

What a waste of beautiful thoughts gone silent would that have been

Now “Why do I write?”, you may ask

It is a question containing four simple words

Yet the answer is composed of endless unbound pages

Maybe I write so that my work can inspire people

So they can see words as pixels,

Pages as images waiting to be developed,

And books as the frame of a hidden story waiting to be listened to

Or maybe deep down I write so that these thoughts of mine are not forced to remain silent under all that dust

All I am certain of is that it takes one curious mind to open a book

And another to make that happen through the art of writing