Me: I'm pretty much and open book. I don't have any secrets so anyone can ask anything.
Him: What kind of book are you?
I was dumbstruck. No one had ever asked me a question like that. For once I was speechless. My brain was fuming. I couldn't decide on whether he was making fun of me for my love of books or if he was serious. after all it is such a peculiar question to ask someone, especially someone that you hardly know. Well being who I am I took the leap and decided to let him make a fool out of me, I chose to answer honestly.
I told him that i would be an old world romance novel full of passion. Not the dirty modern day novels but the old classics. I was thinking like Shakespeare or something of that manner. It would be simple and sweet but so much fire in it that it makes the reader forget the real world and they fall into my life. That's where I stopped, I had so much more to say but I didn't. I hold back sometimes but it i was going to continue it would go something like this...
My book would be heavy and thick but small in size. It can relate to me in that manner. It may be small in size, not much bigger than the palm of my hand but its depth is far more than what most people expect. Of course it has the old world smell. That smell that is of ink and salt.
It would be a dark navy blue with silver embossing on it. There would be no title on the cover. When the book is opened the beginning is sarcastic and rebellious. There's a touch of sorrow and you can see the tear stains on the page that mixed with the ink. It would all be hand written with a quill and ink-well. It is tangled with love and logic, a mixture that is a contradiction but still makes pure sense at the same time. There is passion and mistakes combined with love and forgiveness. There is a lot of hope in there and thick lines of a faith stronger than herself. She would be kind and soft looking. Peculiar and determined lines her face. Big smile lines from many joyous times.
As you read past the sarcasm and tears when the real story is supposed to start, that's where it ends. There are no written pages in the middle. Just blank cream colored pages to stare at. You flip through the book frantically you turn to the last chapter and its there. The last chapter is there just as if the whole story was written. The words would make the reader fall in love with the main character and learn to despise what she despised. You would cry with her and die with her. You would swim in her oceans and learn her words. She would envelope you into her world.
The pages are soft and worn. They are edged in gold and there are dog-ear pages all through out it. No bookmarks just turned down corners, its a casual read that will hopefully change how you see the world. Soft scribbles on pages when the author got distracted and lost. Each word hand written into the page with permanent ink will have meaning and be of use. There will be parts crossed out and errors blacked out but each one will serve a purpose. There will be a passion behind each letter, each stroke of the quill.
Even when my book is gone by the time of ages eating away its page and mice chewing on its spine, my story will still be there. I will have effected the time of my readers and perhaps changed history. There is so much more to life than these physical things. Its the heart that will always remain. Maybe someone will look to my book for inspiration and maybe my words will comfort those in need. Maybe my book will soften a hard heart or give a weak heart strength again. The soul is eternal and the soul of my story will pass on. Like the end of my story the main character finds heaven, I too will die for purpose.
It opens with "baby, leave the world breathless..."
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