Preface

“If there is a book that you want to read, but it hasn’t been written yet, you must be the one to write it.” –Toni Morrison

Someone told me he can lend me some of his books.

But, I am a kind of someone who doesn’t like to read long stories.

Nor interested to sit in the corner of my room, reading literature to seek the emptiness that I am currently living.

Sometimes, I would like to read books, but I don’t have the list or a preference, specific preferences, to kill my time. And so, I begin to make a book. A book that only I, myself, can read, can feel, and can indulge in its unique styles - a weird one.

“You know you’ve read a good book when you turn the last page and feel a little as if you have lost a friend.” –Paul Sweeney

I had read one book that lasts for a month in my immature imagination about how interesting it was to read. And as a non-reader, I would love to read the rest of the sequels of it but unfortunately, the book was not mine, and I have no right to lend the rest of it nor given a chance as my life is not a river, I don’t live as if I’m a water, following the laminar and turbulence of life.

If I were to describe my life, probably it’s like a planet with only land, shovel and water. For me to be able to live like a free water, I need to make my own way, my own canal to begin my journey.

I have a little background about making creative stories as I am inclined in writing back in my early childhood life. I love to read short stories with lots of printed pictures in it and, I would love to read and read and read the same short story all over my life, but that was when I was a kid. Later on, some of my teachers introduced me to writing articles. At first, I am hesitant as I am not confident in my vocabularies and style of work but as the daily training continued, it shaped me, and it became one of my hobbies.

Although they always gave me articles than short stories with pictures in it, it somewhat caught my interest as I am still ignorant about the real deal of writing.

One time, my interest got lost. I hate to read books, both academic books and short stories. I also hate studying as if it took all my childhood life that everyone, except me, should enjoy. But there is one thing that’s bothering me right now, why did I lose my interest in books? And why is it like the soul of the books are hunting me, for what reason? Is it to read them? Or to make them?

But, here is for sure, that someone who asked me if I’m interested in lending his book made my soul creep with complex of reasons that me, myself cannot imagine.

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