by: Angel DeSouza
A book, has pages... Filled with most unique scribbles. Scribbled alone, scribbled with someone, scribbled for someone and scribbled... for own. Patterns of letters, colors of words, pictures painted with verbal ecstasy, only felt in the hands of the beholder, the Reader. shapes and sizes vary, content itself cannot be criticize to commonness or comparison. I wonder... if a book ever has its opening?... Or if it has an ending?.. Just like any other relationship? An untold story? Lessons or Accidents?... Is it same as a human? Or Is it just a dumb, deaf, lifeless book?...
Ive met this book.. unique, masculine, own world where its hard to penetrate.. penetrate with my mind, my mind alone.. a world of talks, a world of own. I saw it on a web page... still.. alone.. waiting to be touched.. waiting to be read... It was not on a cheap sale price. Not expensive either... just presentable. Presentable with no risks.. but risks alone.
Oh! how it taunted me. How it teased me to leave my unfinished book and go for it, go for him. And yes, at first site, i decided. My book... move forward. How silly. who would leave the existing book unfinished and go to another one. Me. I wasn't silly. It was just who i am.
How excited was I.. there it was.. opposite of me. On my lap..On my hand... in my mind. Somehow with communication between us, we managed to strike an agreement to sit alone, sit together, together with a meal. Hand to hand, touch to touch.. mind to mind, heart to heart. Its smooth velvet skin, darkest shade of honey. Height of similarity yet incomparable. Sheets so smooth, soft that i can sink my tongue into its depth of life. Looks beyond my presentation. Muscular with sheets of untold stories.Words of shut, waiting to be open. Like lips ready to be kissed upon its key for commencement. To open, to unwind, to release its forbidden knowledge that i alone can get a chance.. a life time chance to hear, to feel, to know, to taste... to be in.. to be within. How delightful would it be to travel one on one with this book. Alone but willing to risk. Alone willing to be filled. Alone willing to be with a pencil, pencil to write more stories, more events, more...life. More meaning. Oh.. the book dwells in my aching heart. Tied by strings of contract.. simple two month.. simple mutual understanding. Oh.. how i hunger for his world.. yet this book seems helpless.
Alas, no letters, no write, but my forcible lips pierced his white diaries of his words, his world. Leaving him unaided, left..loose...blown away into thoughts of loneliness. This book...
No not this book.. This lonely, living, knowledgeable, gifted, talented book.. wants to be heard.. but for a price.. It wants to share its world.. his world.. with me..
Its loneliness, ready to be crumpled.. empty pages that pre-occupy a books living youth. For every good thing you wish, a price has to be paid..
His price is his world, my price.. was...my..Truth.
This book wouldn't allow me to read.. its pages keep shifting and turning in rebellious agony.. hoping me to realize, come to my sense that i haven't purchased it yet. It was just there.. waiting for me to pay my fee.. my fee of truth. My fee of my world.
Trust between us, like a twisted grape veins.. bearing new fruit.
Alcoholic.. thirst.. filling of one's empty glass.. satisfaction, a defeat over the ties, a victory over the ruling God of loneliness.
He is my book, my ticket to the world im destined to be?...
Yet my pen is not ready to write. The pages disappear each time i touch... tears of watery grave, emotions of unparallel, fills, trickles and drops. His pages, he cannot see, invisible are my tears aloft, plop soft on his skin. His letters.. submerge, erased by my washing salt.
We both stand on an edge.. signed by a contract.. a book and a boy. How can they both fall in love?... Who is willing to move?
The boy, vigorate his pen on the book? Or the book, living sheets that dances to make the boy follow wherever it goes?
No leader.. No follower..
Just the writer and just the book.
Both fills each other.
Boy writes and shares his world in the fleshes of the pages.
Book allows with love and departs its side of the world and shares it with the boy.
Wow.. a piece of both worlds.
A piece of paper bound by lonely dust. Dust as in TIME....
No comments:
Post a Comment