A girl on my left passionately writes away as I take a seat in the waiting lounge at Pearson International airport. She writes in a determined manner, as if words have come to her and she has embraced them. Her eyes downcast, she separates herself from the rest of the world and is one with language. A man not far away holds a book in front of his face, but his eyes look far away in a contemplating gaze as if some old memory just beckoned to him. His leg crossed over the other moves as if swaying to music, but looking at him I wonder if he is in tune with his moment. Maybe he is, with some memory, a dream or an unanswered question. Each of us is an art that is found in books. The creativity flows in these pages for those who seek.
I am one of the millions walking towards some destination. As I pull my hand carrier behind me, my eyes anxiously wait for the familiar smell and the beautiful sight of shelves that hold the treasures. In search of a bookstore at the airport, I find myself eager to see the familiar names. I walk past numerous stores watching my step and holding my belongings. I am in a strange place and at an unknown time. Some have run away from the clutches of routine while others are going towards it.
This is a place full of strangers I will never know and never see again. Many faces swim in front of me. Faces of strangers found in books, in stories that are unforgettable.
A magical smell greets me as I enter the bookstore I have finally discovered. The fresh smell of a new book unopened and unearthed. I try to read the scattered words all at once as if time is surely slipping through my fingers. The hunger has been aroused and my sight asks for more. When time is on my side, my ritual consists of looking at these acquaintances and friends whom I might never meet. My fingers touch the tightly bound books, one after another. Perhaps it is an effort to create an affinity, if not a relation.
How strong is the line of demarcation that divides this bookstore from the path of these millions of people? Stories in these books are intertwined at some point, because a story of one is the story of all. Many thoughts have taken flight under this roof. Muddled thoughts have found coherence in this surrounding; a home to a greeter of words and wisdom. Wayfarers have found friendships, horizon and meaning. Ideas and aspirations bound together, yet sought separately.
There are those who walk around in feigned ignorance, an attempt to forge a joyous relation with the moment they are living in. Eyes that seem to look, but might not be seeing. Not everyone is liberated. Many are exiled by some sorrow, regret or guilt. I might be walking among stories, many tragic and some full of joy. A mystery lurks in the eyes of these strangers.
