When one mentions a book, people will have one of two reactions: excitement, because they like reading, or irked, for they despise even the idea of reading, of picking up the string-binded compressed tree pulp with pressed ink that somehow have deep meaning. Books come in many shapes and sizes; books can be fat, skinny, tall, short, have small, compact font, or tall, loud font. All of these factors contribute to whether or not someone will be willing to pick it up, whether or not they can force themselves into the plot and get something out of it in the end.
I, personally, am one of the shorter, more thicker ones, like The Mark of Athena by Rick Riordan or Harry Potter by J. K. Rowling, six hundred pages at least. I'd have large, yet compact font, since I have a lot going on in my mind and speak with a rather booming tone when voicing an opinion. At first glance, one might be immediately put off by its appearance, thinking that there is no way that they're ever going to read a monster like that. But, oh wait, they're reading the summary...and...nope, it's not interesting enough. They place the book back on the shelf and walk away without sparing a glance. They just judged a book by its cover without realizing it.
Time passes by, next day feeling longer than the last. Every day, large windows allow light pour into the room, shining and glistening off the reflective book covers, except that one book in the corner; the light just cannot reach it. You see it? That one, there. The one collecting dust on the top shelf, up so high not everyone can reach it; the one that appears to have a dull, fading cover from staying there for so long. Yeah, that one. It's me. Secluded in the darkness. Hidden, far away from the others.
Until one day someone does reach for it, tries to, at least. This someone stands on the balls of their feet, reaching and reaching until, oh!, they got it. They snagged it by the corner and yanked it down, landing on the floor with piercing thud. But that's okay, books don't have feelings, right? They just have to deal with the fact that they won't always be cradled in a reader's arms, that gravity will always pull them down. The person responsible for this picks up the book, trying blow the dust off it, resulting in them brushing it off themselves since the dust clings to the book like a lifeline, not ready to reveal itself to the stranger. They flip the book in their hands, examining the weight of it; they take their time to actually read the summary instead of skimming through, and wow, they're actually opening it, reading the first chapter.
And they never put it down; they seem genuinely interested. They take their time to read every last detail, as if they were committing it to memory. They don't flip the pages aggressively, crinkling the corners, possibly tearing it, no, instead, they treat the frail pages with care, hooking their bitten-down fingernails over the page to flip it, and let gravity do the rest. When it's time for them to go home, they beg for five more minutes mom! but end up buying the book since they just can't, for the life of them, seem to leave the book alone. They take the book home with them, cherishing it.
In this metaphor, my closest friends are symbolized through the person who takes the book home, the book being me. They gave the book a chance, and read between the lines.
YOU ARE READING
irene's thoughts
Poesía" a book in which taestheticallysuga has minor mental breakdowns and decides to write it out for validation "
