Pieces of Moonbeams

XLI: 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐬?

(...)

it feels so astonishing to see different perspectives on life. to read different stories of different people. had you not seen that people are books?

millions of millions of pages, chapters, and covers, and each lives written tell different stories. different experiences, different lives, different paths to walk through, different roads to drive into—and that makes us human.

that splits us away from any kind—that having a book to open in front of our hands will signify humane qualities. that it embodies the aliveness of our soul. that we are we—as it shouts:

"Hey! Read this!"
"This is us. This is who we are."

--

to have our own stories that we could telltale & share with one another, to pass limitless bits of thoughts and exchange concepts and ideas with each other, to hold remnants of remains of memories when time descends and forget who we are & who we are not.

or to just simply blabber:

"Hello! How's your day today?"
"It's good. Thanks for that."

you'll never know them—from its rough or smooth textures on its surface, whether they're readable, whether they're organized or well-putted together, whether their written letters fill in the entire cover with vibrant colors; or even gray-scales, blacks, or monochromes that our eyes still see even the hues that they splash are bland & dull—and not lovely & lively to look at.

unless you go into the page's pieces one by one & find things you didn't know one after another. and mumble:

"Oh, it's very colourful on Chapter 36."

we gaze and catch a glimpse of ourselves at the mirror every single day; but we see ourselves in a different way from one another. some are happy that they're born into this world. well, some are also not.

others don't need other's light to survive for they knew that they shone brightly than others. other's who were dimly lit need other's light to shine on the night sky.

well, let's keep the warm radiance to reflect upon each other so that everyone will gleam out of dim; or atleast for the mundane can be illuminated & dazzled—dissolved from creeping darkness.

--

we read somehow similar & different books in life, but the way we absorbed them & etched gems of wisdom impact how we turn the thin pages when the world orbits everyday.

it's a different kind of euphoria to engrave bookmarks to the page that we learnt—and still go back to them after years of forgetting it. a page of life entails distinct chapters; and these chapters binded together could form a book of life.

that's why books embody humans; and humans embody books.

reading keeps you alive. living makes you to read. it's on the same arc of branch in a tree. a part of us when we're reading the lines are sealed together because we are we.

we exist at the same time. we cannot get back to the fleeting past—for the future has concealed tricks & holds time magically. but letters kept are immortalize beyond eternity.

we read different lives. we also write different unpublished stories; or maybe we have different publishing dates to set on.

𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐞 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐬? von frederick
June 20, 2023