i was once a book. a book with pages of pages, and yet pages none. fill my pages, i tried. allow the ink to spread down the page from the tip of the pen, from the stroke of it all to form lines. contort your lines to make shapes. Nay, that these shapes dare form letters, and from them words. ink not my mind, asunder my attempt at writing. less you should find that neither pen nor the book would express my inept emotions. but neither am i the book nor the pen. i find comfort that i am not the book. everyone was a book, but books were meant to be read. what of the ink? if the ink were the book, would it escape the world it was written to? had it a say, would it deny its truth? pray that it would not escape the truth of the Writer.
let us assume that we are all Writers. what is our truth? what medium carries our soul and rings true to the hearts of other Writers? had i once been told that my soul could not transcend my imagination, you would come to find me a Writer no more. The oppressed have a terrible knack to horde their soul. indulge me for my truth, young Writer. u have neither friend nor foe but the ink to which you have been given. will you find for yourself to be a book? after all, we all were once books. books with pages of pages, and yet pages none.
