This story came to me today. I don't know who's story it is and who needs to hear it but I decided to write it down and publish it for all of you to see. The story is a bit sad but I like to think that it also reflects the topic of hope. Speaking of hope, I hope you realise how wonderful you are 💌
The rain is softly brushing against my window and I have mentally locked myself inside. The door to my soul is almost open but I don't want sadness to knock on it and enter this perfect state of calm. There is a calender on my wall but it's from the year 1939. Does it mean that I live in another dimension, another place, another time? I still see the same days there as everyone else. Yet another Monday that turns into a Friday. But when a year changes I'll take a step back rather than a giant leap of faith forward. Some people like to live in the present, some always think about their future but I find the greatest comfort is in the past.
The past is always one moment before something happens. The last laughter before a storm, the last ray of sunshine before the dark. I lean forward letting the day bring me some of its energy as I sit at the end of my bed. The end of my bed - the end of my dreams? The line that will separete fantasy from reality. I wish I could be waking up at noon to the sound of water boiling, to the thought of morning tea and a newspaper. Smiling faces gazing up towards me at the table. The atmosphere of an eternal Sunday.
I have a clock on my wall but it doesn't sound. I can't hear the time go by, I can just sense it. The table is filled with the presence of yesterday. Flowers that used to bloom, pictures of people who used to love and sing, letters that were written to be read in the future but with words that came into our minds in the past. An empty cup that was filled with coffee before work, water before bed and wine during a starry night in August. The mirror is clouded, covered in dust, fingerprints, and dried tears. Once it used to be the worst possible enemy, pointing out every scar, every flaw every stain of shame. Then it just became an object just like anything else. Now it feels like an old friend that you glance back at every now and then and you can almost see a reflection of your youth.
I always used to judge a book by its cover, thinking that I too was a book among others united by a shelf, seeking the comfort of other books but waiting for a potential reader to pick me up. Some did. Mostly to read what the critics had told or read the introduction. Not many reached the final pages and sometimes I needed to give them little papercuts here and their. Because even if they read my story and I would let them, they kept messing up my pages. I was covered in dirt and my words were hidden. I was shoved aside when the new books with better covers came. But once they returned to me I had no power left in me except the papercuts. Their blood would drip on my page as a reminder of hurt. But once there was a reader who even brought his bookmark. I got to feel appreciated until the story was read and I had no more pages left to give. No more lines, no more words.
And so the loyal reader left but he left the bookmark with me and it gathers dust on the shelf of memories and I cannot see it, but I'll never stop feeling it. Sometimes the sun would shine on it but I was too afraid to look. I cannot seem to feel the floor under my feet, is this were the reader meets the last word on the last page in a book that isn't able to return to the past anymore?