As a young girl, I loved books deeply – from the pieces of it to its bounded forms – novels and magazines and to several other forms of printed literature, most of which I never read but had taken pleasure in arranging. Not particularly because I was intelligent, but because in many ways and for several reasons which I cannot put in words, I feel drawn to books and strongly think that the many happenings around us should be noted down or else, we will lose them and the memories of them for eternity. I had, in some occasions, opined that published books should be marked and remarked on by the readers, inscribing their individual thoughts and opinions as they read. But these aren’t all I felt about papers, I felt a deep sense of gratitude to papers and its inventor(s) and I acknowledge it possesses one trait most humans lack – patience .

A look at my desk
and I could easily spot you out
your blankness speaks of space
your plainness depicts attentiveness
you reflect myself to me
and while you inspire ideas and deep thoughts
you ask me to fill you up with them

My diary
the difficult part is
I hope I can confide in you
as trusting people is cumbersome
they would rarely listen and when they do
they listen to reply
and before you are done, he is on the move.

But you,
you are faithful and calm
you bear the impression of my pains in ink
never complained I nagged, never tired of me
when I doze off on you amidst tears
which drops on the ink and spreads
and I stain you with food and sweat
you bear me
you understand my state.

You have been a great source of comfort and support
in your flat form and bare spaces, you take in my pains
because you care
you care and understand
I hope to make you the extension of the reservoir in me
and I’m sure you won’t tell.

you are more patient than people
a few who would manage what you bear for the world –
the lies, frauds, crimes and deceit
the pain, distress, pleasure and fame
I love people, paper
and I love you too.

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