Only a child could have the guiltless courage and pleasure to look another in the eyes and say, I just want to have fun
I’m not an object, and you can’t just use me, like your rented book that after you were done reading got placed back on the damaged wooden shelf by someone else’s dirty hands, back to the same spot it was before you wanted to read into its pages. Back on the shelf where it had been untouched for years
Picked up by another, and before being reopened was thrown back because of the contents of its cover. But when you open the book you only find blank pages: because, its contexts have fused its ink of words into the contents of paper.
Or, what if the book that you were looking for was discontinued? Every copy sold out,
Misplaced, placed accidentally by some confused librarian. Something about love lost in an isle based off history.
What if that book needed to be read by someone who could never finish a chapter, or by someone who could never start one?
Could you read me like a book?
Could you turn over the pages of my life, memories, and sentimental situations?
Maybe this journey can be followed through from its beginning to its end, but this plot has a twist yet no resolution because the writer who wrote it suffered from writers block
Reading three books at the same time was your climax while I was trying to solve your cryptic riddles and reading into all your subtle innuendos when all the pages of the history we wrote were burned like coal into the subconscious. Not even one utterance of those events could be spoken into life
And you thought it would be fun. Can you say that after having fun and when the 18 year mistake happens that you thought would go off to college but stayed instead, in your living room, sitting on your table and sleeping on your couch, would you take back those words?
The end .