What are you?

I am a book that people like to read, but would not like to study. The shorter the stories, the easier they find it to read. A book that attracts every passerby with the cover picture that resembles a painter’s pallete in black and white. Glossy and all that but has no colors. Oh yes! And no one will ever want to exchange me for any other books. They want me forever to be there in their bookshelf. Why?! After busy mornings, busy afternoons, busy evenings and tiring night outs, once in a while reading me makes them feel different. More complex maybe in other words. And that’s exactly what they want; the pleasure of feeling oneself being complicated, the pleasure in brooding, the pleasure in finding pain, the pleasure of admiring sinful lust, the pleasure in considering suicide, the guilty pleasure of entertaining negative thoughts, the pleasure of forgetting the once-important in life, the pleasure of imagining the never experienced, the pleasure of never letting go oneself, the pleasure of confessing sins, the pleasure in being crazy and so many more.

Some others are people who are good storytellers. I am not sure if I have helped them anytime, but I seem to remain in their bookshelves too, occasionally moving to their beds for bed time reading and sometimes among the pile of books next to table lamp.

In short what am I. I am book full of long and short stories, both real and fiction.

I am never everything but also never something...sometimes...