It has been a long time since I took the time to write. I mean really write. Words had stopped flowing from my fingers, thoughts refused to touch my mind.
Was it the end?
It seemed so until that day when I walked into a bookstore. And I saw it. It wasn’t doing much. It just lay there probably placed by somebody, who was tired of browsing, placed by someone sickened of reading about death, left behind by a reader who read the blurb, and never gave it another thought.
But I think you, my dear book and I should not give it such an abrupt end. Because then how would I have found you? I just happened to be there, just going through the books, while you lay in the corner, never asking, and never begging, for me to read you. But what was it about you? What was it, that drew me back to you at least three times, and what was it that forced you into my hands?
I do not know, now would I want to, just that you are in my hands. You were literally placed into my hands; I was forced to run my fingers across your pages. Never in a hurry was I to finish you.
I have never heard of the author, much less read any of his stories. Why do I have you? Was it you, Death, who wanted your story told to me, was it you? I’d like to believe so.
I felt pretty much like the Book Thief, when I had finished it here in this room, a week later. I did not pay for you. Yet, you are here. With me, on my bed, and in my slumber, haunted by words, haunted by your words, Markus Zusak.
Do you want me to thank you then, do you want me to say the words that have been hovering on my lips for days, do you want me to tell you that if it wasn’t for you, words would probably never have come out again? Do you want me to tell you that your book did not make me cry? I did not shed tears, nor did I feel like telling you to go on and on filling my nights and days? Do you?
I think I just felt you telling me that you were there for me. That you would not rest, and would not stop. I have a feeling that I must tell you, that this book has probably filled my life, emptying the emptiness out of it. And asked me to never be scared again, of anything.
When Death told me this story, I had to listen, really had to. Nazi Germany, an orphaned child, a best friend, parents and love, all just things which came in the way of you telling me this story.
So, read it now if you must, and tell me if this story has touched you. Not your heart, or your mind. But, if it at any point, truly touched you.
So, why did you come to me, you book thief, you?
