I am not an open book.
The hardness of my cover and the complexity of my contents were not designed for weak fingertips and feeble minds. I have been opened once or twice. My spine stroked by flimsy hands, held with a broken focus, my pages slightly skimmed through, only to be put down mid-sentence. I have yet be placed in the gentle care of a reader that doesn’t mind that my chapters are often cut short, my edges sharp and my pages loose; one with the intent to finish.
As I accept my place on the shelf, I no longer ache to be taken down, opened up and validated by the comfort of fleeting eyes. I have begun to find solace in my own story, comfort in between the lines and a curious fascination for the pages still blank. I no longer worry if my analogies are beautiful enough for Pulitzer Prizes and Nobel awards.
I only pray that one day, my sentences will leave traces of ink on the heart strong enough to comprehend them and I am no longer taken out of context.
I have always had an affinity for words but I did not know true love until I read my own.