To Open and Close the Book

To open and write down that things that are part of your day then realize that you meant to remember more things that you may have forgotten earlier.

You see an old friend, your favorite book that you never seem to be able to put down. Each time you reach for this book, and you open its cover, turning each page and enjoying the words as they seem to leap off the pages as if to teach you something new. No matter how many hundreds of times you were drawn to this book, like an old friend it keeps you wondering and wishing.

The hours spent trying to get to the finish of the last page are more exciting than a day in the park, less stressful than actually working out problems with no solutions and more interesting than the latest new tv show that may or may not hold your attention span for more than 10 minutes of the first episode of the new season. The book seems to take on a life of its own. Seems to take on a whole new meaning of an old new friend that feels comfortable like a well-worn sweater.

It keeps you intrigued by the way it was written; it gives you hope when none is seen on the horizon and gives you a peace that stands above all other understanding. You look for and desire to find a quiet place to start this book, like meeting an old best friend for coffee and pastries, sitting down to catch up and after the conversation lags and you run out of the things to say, you place the book in a spot that the book will be seen and never forgotten, ever.

You a very special love for the book. It gives you a sense of achievement, it gives you approval and lets you see what you have done up to the point that you want to reward yourself in a way that will be carried on for days and weeks long after the book has been closed when you finish and are done this time.

The book is like an addiction, and it can only be fulfilled with reading this book. If someone ask to read this book, you politely turn them down, for lack of a better excuse, you claim you are still reading it and are trying to find the time to finish it. The only problem is, like a parent letting go, a college bound child, that you are hesitant to lie outright but are not willing to pass on the book for fear of who knows what horrors could become of the book.

You are hoarding the book, like a person who cannot swim holds onto a life jacket. You feel a sense of loneliness. a yearning, a longing to be where the book is at all times. You wonder if you can ever let it go or live without the book, for fear of that you may go insane from not having it around anymore.

The title is worn down, the pages slightly tattered and torn from endless use, you would never earmark the pages, for fear of it losing its highest value yet you feel like you need to protect it and keep within easy grasp, never out of reach.

You ponder on and wonder the whys of the things written by the author. You seem to be in a trance and are having to be shaken awake from the trance as though you were there inside the pages of the book living out the story yourself and are shocked at the power this book has over you. "After reading the book so many times, losing count in the process, are you merging into the book and losing a sense of what is real or not?" "Are you no longer able to know when you are awake and when you are asleep?"

The thin lines become thinner, and the book becomes a closely guarded part of you when you are able to come to your senses. You are within the boundaries of sanity and insanity. You have lost the direction you were going, are starting to forget what you were doing, having amnesia when you leave the house and are incoherent and confused on your best days, all because the book has taken control of you and your former life.

As you dwell deeper into the book, the title of the book, the titles of the chapters start to blur and transform into your life, your actions, your thoughts, your feelings, your being human, and your awareness is filled with static and you seem to begin thinking like the story that once was the book.

You want to remember when you first saw the book. The love at the idea of reading a book, from cover to cover, in say a year. But this book was different. It was never truly like any book you had seen or read before. This book had a mission in mind, and you were its target. It was setting the moment up for when you were no longer free from its mind-numbing, thought provoking, thought controlling and it would dominate and make you into something you never thought was possible with a book, especially one that had your attention from the word go.

You lost sleep over the book. You were possessive over the book. You gave it rave reviews. Not once or twice, but like 10 million times and counting, you did. You were so unaware of the beating heart inside the book, for your reading of the book gave it life and the more you read, the longer it lived and the closer it became you.

You figured that reading would give you something to pass the time with. You were trying not to become bored so easily or put off what needed to be faced and done. It was to become your undoing. Not all at once. Not all in one sitting. It was to be the book that was the winner and champion. You would be the one who no longer would stand on your own. You would codependent instead of independent.

The one book easy to start but never able to put down, much less see what was being written on each page, like a fortune teller predicting your fortune. The trap was set. The deed done cheaply and done dirty. You now were replaced and your life was written on the pages of the book, maybe to be read in the future, yet still being written by the author of the book that was never going to let you let them go.

How Ironic!!!!!!!