What is a book?
Is it information, experience, life, a kaleidoscope or portal?
Is it this stand I have under my laptop?
Is it these sharp pages that I turn, their smell and sound, or the glass of my screen that I dance my fingers on?
A book can easily be all the above, but maybe the question is not what, but when.
When a book can be for us a trampoline that helps us make the leap?
When a book becomes for us a twig that sprouts in our mind, a door that opens wide, a slit of light that makes us guess another space?
If we can now see all the books becoming in all the people around, maybe we will see one riding in a train, speeding underground in the subway, or maybe on a bench in a park, or intimately hiding in a room of one's one.
Maybe if we can see then all the places at once, we will find that they are not so different after all, maybe they all are one fleeting and elusive space, the joyfulness of opening.
We think of that place in time and space and we try to give it a form. A place that makes us feel or reminds us of that feeling. Maybe a gentle hill and the open clean sky can be a place where one can read and a book can be. The earth on which and the sky under which we are all equal and free.
For that high feeling that we cherish, we can only make a reminder to enjoy together, of what a book can be for one, for all of us.