The Page

Page one, I turn.
There’s a smudge on it.
The page’s very familiar,
And makes me feel like I’ve already been through it.

But I like the smell,
the words on the first page dancing,
making me dizzy and causing visions.
Oh, I must think the page is smeared with drugs.
Or must I think the page is really dancing?
I decide to put that on hold,
for pressing things are at stake.
Pressing, that reminds of the press that made this book.
Or the press of the button on the credit card machine,
billing me three hundred rupees for this old book.
Machine, book.
I’m confused.
Why did I pay three hundred for this book?
Three hundred, could have fetched the movie three hundred.

I haven’t taken my eyes off this smudge.
Is it some sort of grease? Or is it blood? Because it is brownish.
This book, I must say is very interesting.
I haven’t read it, but would definitely like to. Someday.
But I have more pressing things at stake.
Oh, no. Not the press again.
Pressing, I repeat.
Get out of the zone.
It is time now.

Page 2, I turn.
Again, there’s a smudge on it.
This page is very familiar too,
And I’m confused, again.

The smell is different on this one.
But I am not giving the contents of the page any attention.
I want to just look at the smudge, and understand.
The money I’ve given for this, is huge.
My heart longs for redemption, I won’t say.
My mind is aching for freedom, I won’t say.
Because, don’t use the word because.
This is a declaration.
This is the very end.
Get up, look at the light.
Look up, there is someone beckoning to you.
But why would either of us do that?
We are busy, looking at something on a page.
Yes, we pay and we look at something.
Yes, we waste our lives looking at pages instead of books.