Peeling through chapters and tearing out pages.
Only to tape them back together and scope out answers.
Tugging at words, sewing them together, editing.
Filing the edges, polishing the cover.
Alone? The exception? Individual?
We are all of the same paper.
Bound together in chapters of varying lengths.
Different fonts, languages, styles.
Paragraphs we would rather not read.
And ones we act out every moment of every day.
To convince our readers that the book is worthwhile.
Stained, blemished, disregarded.
Laying dishevelled in a second hand shop.
Now only read by the ones who could recite a chapter with closed eyes.
Seeing past the grammatical errors,
Beyond the aesthetics, through the hyperbole.
And so a book never dies.
Its’ stories may fade into the background of busied minds and disappear.
But the feeling that book gave to its readers can never be destroyed.
For it lives on.
In the tingling of a chest.
In the dreams of a child’s imagination.
In the changes people are inspired to make.
In the pages of other books.
Where light spreads and flows and never ceases to be.