Open Book

I am an open book dying to be read. Not just the cover either, not just the summary on the back. My sleeve is a little worn from the misuse of my pages, each crease and bend a testament to the moments I’ve endured, the stories I’ve held within. Shelved for so many years as my narrative continues its stages, I remain in a state of limbo, waiting for someone to pull me off the shelf and dive into the depths of my existence. But if you only knew what wonders were around this wonderland, you’d stay and read a little more, exploring the intricate details and hidden gems I have to offer.

This digital age has no room for these hardback ways, where the tactile sensation of flipping through pages is often replaced by the cold glass of a screen. So motionless I'll lie until my truths are wanted and shared, my essence trapped in the ink and paper that define me. Spoiler: since I've read ahead, I die in the end, but I won't let that stop me from living. Not anymore, anyways. I am an open book dying to be read, or am I dying to be knew? Is that what I mean? What type of book would I be if, in fact, I was a book? Dramatic, for sure. Little thought was put into that. I’d want to be Tom Hanks looking for my Meg Ryan, embodying the romantic ideal of a search for connection and meaning in a world that often feels disconnected. But that wouldn't be my book. That wouldn’t be me.

The words on my pages echo my strength and reflect what I've been through, shown by rips and tears, corners folded to save a spot once read now show their age. Each scar is a story, each mark a memory, a reminder of battles fought and lessons learned. Covered in a time capsule of fingerprints on top of dust, I stand as a relic of the past, waiting for the right reader to come along and uncover the layers of my narrative. Window shopping for a reader who wants to read what's weaved within the words in your book inside this hookup era is equivalent to banging your head against a wall over and over, wanting the headache to stop. The fleeting connections, the superficial interactions—they leave me yearning for something deeper, something real.

I want to say I hate it here, but I don't. There’s beauty in the chaos, and perhaps there’s a lesson to be learned in this modern landscape of fleeting moments and shallow encounters. For anyone that clicked to get the dirt…read my fucking book. Dive into my chapters, explore the twists and turns of my plot, and discover the richness of my story. My pages hold the essence of who I am, waiting patiently for the right reader to come along and appreciate the journey I’ve taken, the growth I’ve experienced, and the dreams I continue to chase. So, if you dare, take a chance on my story—turn the page, and let’s see where this leads.