Book on the shelf

I caught myself staring again, staring at the book on the shelf. 

It’s been there  for a while now between all the others I read. I’m aware of the dust that’s accumulating around it’s pages.

I remember that day like yesterday. Something attracted me to the book. You know what they say about books. Sometimes you don’t choose the book, but it choosesyou?

So I started reading. 

I soon realized that it was a story unlike any stories I ever read. It was a book unlike any book I ever knew. It was a story I didn't understand that well. Would I ever?

What would other people say if they knew I was reading this book, was it something they would approve off? 

I liked the story tough, there was something about it that kept pulling me in. Some days I sat and read for what seemed like ages.

But after a while I could no longer concentrate on the story itself. Every time I started reading my mind wandered off. I was well aware of the fact that I started getting lost in my own thoughts.

One day I put the book aside and decided that maybe I should not read any further.

But every now and then I stare at the book on the shelf. 

I pick it up sometimes and put it down again.

It's there and I can’t get rid of that feeling. That feeling that you get when you've closed a book, but didn't finish reading. When you didn't even finish reading the chapter and you try to take your mind off it but you’re still yearning to know how the story continues and what will happen.

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