Flip the page because I’m done with this one. Little microbes of dust fly up in celebration joining their little particle friends in the air, nearly invisible to the eye.
Run your finger down the cut pages, and it smells like old goodness (I’ve always loved the smell of books).The spine’s integrity is still in tact and I’ve come to define my life by it. Instead of the steady progression of time, we move forward haltingly, one page at a time, a new one bringing with it some new twist or turn.
I wonder what this book would be called or what genre. Would it be stranger than fiction or a self-help book? The old Shakespearian intrigue applies here too. Is it a comedy or a tragedy? I’m afraid we won’t know until the end, where we find out if everyone ends up married (comedy) or if everyone ends up dead (tragedy).
Then I wonder, is it a page-turner? The type of read that goes by quickly but fulfillingly—in the blink, there one second and gone the next?
Or do I stop mid-sentence to thumb ahead, calculating how many pages might be left in this giant volume of a book? Those, I hold the remaining pages between my thumb and index finger, sighing out loud at how much I have left to read.
Whether we’re artists or businessmen, we write and we compose.
It’s yet to be seen if my testimony ends up as graffiti sprayed against the edifice of a rich man’s condo. Or perhaps it’ll end up as a musical, lyrical composition, studied down through the ages.
I hope for the latter, but maybe that’s the problem. Hope puts a paintbrush in our hands when maybe we need a chisel. The dreams we have for ourselves are the pocketbook fantasies tucked away in our breast-pocket. Honesty is a bitch, but it makes for the best material because down deep beneath the ground, where lines don’t apply, we understand each other when we’re communicating honestly.
We are scared. We wear masks to fool each other, but we end up fooling ourselves. No one watches you when you dance, because they’re too busy worrying about how they’re dancing.
That’s the story we all set out to write but somehow we all end up writing something different.
It’s what makes this life so frustrating, and so worth reading til’ the bitter and/or better end.