When I entered the old bookstore that day, to cast off the stresses of the external world, I found my friend. It was leaning in thoughtful repose upon the upper shelf of the general fiction area, practically invisible beneath layers of dust. Probably a store clerk had misplaced it, tossing it carelessly amidst unintentional adversaries. Patrons always gravitated to its neighbour, that ubiquitous, cheerful and vacuous tribute to self-discovery that had gained mass popularity among the privileged set, for it promised a solution to the existential dread that seemed to plague most working moms in their 30s. The whiteness of its spine was in stark contrast to the drab exterior of its hapless and fallen rival. But I’d never been taken in by glitter and false promises.

Unwilling to be ignored, my friend whispered to me like a phantom, summoning me to pluck it from its unlikely resting place and peruse its pages. I brushed my palm over the old leather, and the volume fell open. Inside its covers lay a feast that had been longing all this time to act as written provision for the mind and soul. My gaze was full of yearning, but it wasn’t the desperate hunger of the hopeless addict who can never have his appetite sated. It was the zeal you experience when you realize that life is full of promise.