The Book

A short entry.

There is something about an empty sheet of paper. There is certain innocence about it. The white only shows. No words to cover it or taint it with meaning, just a blank void tingling to be written on and filled. We are a lot like paper. We start off fresh, clean, and pure but we tend t stray from that and let others fill our pages with words that we may or may not want. But in life words auto save and we cannot erase them, but yet we have to grow to adjust accordingly to those words. I know for me, there is some pages filled with joy and many filled with sorrow, even now the text in my pages is blurred, almost as if a teardrop hit the page right on the words. It’s as if the words themselves are almost unreadable. I think that like those pages we sometimes have to look back at that page we were and reflect and realize we can never be that, but due to the chapters in between the covers that make us, we find that life itself doesn’t judge a book by the covers but yet the contents. The more we look in ourselves and find the true text, the more we realize who we actually are.

These last couple weeks have been hard. I feel like the hard back copy of myself soon became a paperback version and that my life became dog eared and the pages are smelling like an old book soon to be placed on a shelf in the back section of a library unseen by the eyes of children, man, woman, or bookkeeper. I feel like a book that has been hidden behind encyclopedias full of knowledge. I think that every book goes through this. Some stay hidden from the lights turning on, and some surface after a while catching the eyes of passerby’s and peaking the curiosity of some eager readers. I want to be hidden from the eyes of those passerby’s for a while. I want to sit on the shelf, collect dust and just watch life pass by. I want to be left alone. I want nothing but the hand that put me here to come back and place me back on that shelf that I called home, but unfortunately my pages become shriveled at that thought due the impossible-ness of it. That hand placed me here and here I will remain, unknown, unscaled, unseen, and unknown about. Here I remain a book, a lonely old dusty book, a book that needs to be left alone for a while.

Albert

8.28.2012 12:31AM