When you start reading a great book, its contours start realigning themselves with your imagination.
The spaces between the pause that jumps from one chapter to the next, they are filled with your essence.
And no two people ever would imagine a book in the same way: using exact pastels and brush strokes.
And that is why when you finish a book, you are left with a loss. You know you have lost something because when you read it again, it will never be the same. The experience might be better, but you will read it in a new light altogether. 
We love to cradle our books to sleep in the hope, that we’d maybe dream about it and that shall be the only manageably close encounter we could ever have with the characters, and the story.
And sometimes, we just hold a book close to our heart and cry. 
Writers, have a task at hand. They definitely need to write about what they picture but there should also be a peephole into the scene the key to which is with the reader. We become, the faceless people inside.
I am that woman, who silently resigns to Kent, Baker Street or Wuthering Heights like an unacknowledged presence: an intruder.
This must be the reason why we relish looking into the ordinary lives of men and women through a tiny peephole. These people, perhaps I’d come across them at a dance or a protest, these people are dull, drab and lead non existent lives.
But the excitement of eavesdropping on their most intimate conversations, that keeps us going.
And we might come off as a stock character, after reading a book, we grow, like the protagonist in it grows out of the mould he was cast in and becomes someone else. It is more like the writer, took me up as a character to influence by the force of the story she weaves.



It is my dream that I can not remember,
as it is so unbelievably old.
Perhaps it was late November,
and not much of it my mind now holds.
Yes there are images,
that flash back when I give it a thought,
but I haven’t had that dream for ages,
so when sympathetic recall it sought,
With a furrowed brow I tried to find those visions,
that left me cold,
and what I have now is far from precision.
A house and bulbs,
my grandmother wrinkled,
a van and people,
and my bag.
Oh! And there were eggs.
Spotless smooth and shiny eggs.
Two for me and the rest for them.
An argument made its way into it,
and a friend was lost,
for just when we were ready to leave,
she with a chiding was stopped.
A marriage and flowers on the wall,
noodles in my purse,
funny things lying around,
holding me in its thrall.
I believe my thoughts ran amock,
and the subconscious had gone askew,
for there was so much to grasp,
and so little to make any sense,
that I never did forget it entirely,
because I can not dream that dream again.