An Old Book

There is a magic feeling that arises when one leafs through the pages of an old book which has not been gazed upon in years. The pungent odor of degrading paper lends one an immediate feeling of relief, each page turned smelling more and more of sweet literature. The words in this book are not sacred, but they jump seamlessly from every page as if an old friend were telling you his brilliant idea at its initial conception. Simple phrases effectively resonate with every bone in ones body. The book is a mystery to the mind, yet all too predictable in nature. The overarching theme is unknown to the intellect, because ones unconscious is already passively performing it. With bleached pages flaunting their fragility, the book is slowly withering, following in the footsteps of its mortal author. The author speaks the truth, but his words are not geared towards a capricious audience. For contemporary literature tends to deem the past as something resembling forlorn history, retained but impertinent. The book takes a bound for the unspeakable, presenting its ideas though it were some profound classic literature one could read in spare time. Every now and then an old book in the untouched parts of the library can find its way into the right hands. This person is touched, simply by the fact such an author existed with ideas not unlike his own. The book finds itself in the hands of one who knows where to take its teachings. It carries an ember bright and lucid, so that someday one may rekindle the blaze.