To magic and beyond

I wish for a world with books. Just books and sidewalk cafes. No cars, iPhones, clothes (nude is how we came into the world), nothing at all. We need our children to read books. Since we are in the century where everything is going wrong, maybe this could be made right?
I want children to read. Not on a Kindle or an iPad but read from those yellowing, heavenly smelling books that they can feel. So that they know the feel of a book next to or under their pillows. The books that they can tuck under their pillows without worrying about scratching their screens. The kind of books that children would want to read late into the night believing in a world of magic.
Growing up reading Enid Blytons, I started believing in magic sincerely. I believe that if I have a house next to the woods, my picket fence will be a hangout for pixies and elves. Not the wicked ones that gnaw at your feet while you’re asleep. I mean the ones that get you rainbow colored lemon cakes when they see you cry. The kind that hold your pinky and take you to the Land of Goodies. I’m glad that my childhood turned out to be magical because my mother and my best friend made me believe in it.
Back in those days, technology was mostly just limited to the kitchen and mother would be happy when a new kitchen gadget came out. Birthdays used to be about celebrating with friends (5, to be precise) and all I got was books as gifts. I had a favorite spot where I would curl up with a book and a cup of hot chocolate and just like that, a gloomy day would be like the pretty Sunday.
I hate it that we have a such fast lives. It’s hard as it is to go past a single day and all this technology that has been dumped on us, make it an unhappy life. It’s either work or internet. Relations are limited to status updates and likes and marriages happen through Skype. Ugh!
While we sit and happiness clubs to take time off of our lives, all we really need is a teensy bit of belief in magic. If only a child, a 5-year old, starts to want to listen or talk about magic, there will be an elf somewhere who will heave a sigh of relief.
Kids born to bookworm moms have a happy, carefree and a magical childhood. When I see a quaint bookshop at the corner of a street, all I crave is to sit surrounded by books with a cup of coffee. That is exactly where I want to die in peace. And I want to be buried with Enid Blytons so I know I’ll land in a magical place.


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