There was a book sale at the supermarket a few days ago.
It wasn’t anything fancy, just some cheap books left there for people to rummage through.
The books were mainly children’s books and pocket versions of classics and obligatory school reading. But then I found a book I wanted to buy. The thing was, its cover was torn.
So… I started looking for another copy. But when I found it, I realized I really couldn’t buy it. I mean, what about the other one? Probably no one would buy it and what then? What would happen to the book? What if it felt lonely and sad and unwanted? I even got this idea for a story about the book and I knew I couldn’t just buy the other one.
So I bought the damaged one and then fixed it with some tape. Yes, I know I’m probably weird. But I think I don’t care anymore.
Also, I wrote that story (drabble?). It’s under cut if you want to read it but it’s weird and silly and probably full of mistakes, since I’m not a native speaker. So, on your own risk.;)
You know, just because my cover is a little bit torn at the front doesn’t mean I’m worse than any other book. I can still tell you the same things the other copies do (and a lot more because we’re never identical). You wouldn’t go and exchange a person with a broken arm for another one, would you?
Or maybe you would.
But, I mean, it’s not actually my fault; I didn’t hurt myself on purpose. Try and go to a book sale one day and pretend to be a book there. We’ll see how you cope with all the tossing and throwing and just generally moving around. People tend to go crazy when something costs less than before and then kind of lose respect for that something, you know the feeling.
Then again, maybe you don’t.
The thing is, I am a good book. You wouldn’t guess that by just looking at me but believe me. I am. I can teach you things. I can show you the world. I can easily captivate you with words and you wouldn’t be able to escape me till the last letter. We all have our tricks and they don’t just disappear because of a torn cover.
But it’s not like you’re going to listen to me, is it? I could yell at you to get your attention, I could climb to the top of the pile and stare at you for a very, very long time and you wouldn’t notice me. Or, worse, you would but then you’d decide to look for a copy that’s less damaged and more perfect. Without a second thought.
It’s not as if I wasn’t expecting this as soon as I got injured. I mean, let’s face the facts, all that crap about not judging a book by its cover is like a pretty ball of illusion you like to believe in. But we all know you do. Judge, I mean. You’re really quick to judge.
I don’t really blame you. It’s not like I expect you to fix me. It would require you to buy some additional stuff. Like tape. And scissors. And maybe some paper. And you only even looked at me in the first place because I was cheap.
It’s just that… The things I could tell you! You have no idea. I could have your heart sliced and then put it back together (or not). I could make you cry and laugh harder than you have in weeks. It is kind of sad that I’ll never get to say the things I want to say. Isn’t being permanently mute a punishment a little too severe for getting accidentally damaged?
Or maybe not. It’s just how these things work.
But I really just wanted to be your friend. It’s such a pity you don’t want to be mine.