My life as a book:
Yeah, it’s interesting-- trauma, love, abuse, depression, heartbreak, optimism-- entertaining, at least. I’m a book, yes. My cover is thick and textured; vertical violet stripes, overlapping in two shades, copper trim- mismatched and imperfect.
I strive to be the best damn piece of literature I can be! After all, why else would anxiety and insomnia set in when I lack stress? I need the pressure and drama to sustain me; I don’t want to be a dull story.
Why do I love books? Because I am one. I could sit on a shelf, closed to the world. And I will, until someone leafs through my life, dog-ears my history.
Or maybe I’ll just be used to prop up some table somewhere.
I’d much rather be read though. After all, I am a single copy. A first edition. Not mint condition. Not freshly published. Not finished. But there is already a set number of pages that my inky memoir can stain.
I don’t know who chose that number.
I don’t know that number.
I don’t know the author.
Is it the same as the narrator?
The author and narrator are typically separate in fiction.
But who says I’m fiction?
Who says I’m not?
What does the label say?
Who the hell labels me anyway?
Maybe more people would read me if I were from a famous publishing company. But no. I’m from a branch of a branch of a branch. A brand nearly unknown to the world.
And my publishers…..
I didn’t get much choice in my binding. The color, now that is my concoction. Size though, I had no say in length or width or font. Not even the name was my choice, not really.
All were pre-set.
I don’t have complete control of the papery guts, either. Some of it yes. I can move my arms and legs, but my nerves will zing and my heart will beat without consent.
After all, you can’t control the world, only yourself.
So, what chapter ya on?
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