A Story’s Plight
I am a witness to a variety of emotions. I
have witnessed them, ever since I was created. My creator… I will never forget
her. A weird lady, one might say, but for me, her brainchild, she is the best.
A person with a very clear understanding to what the world is. She first
conceived my whole existence while walking along a busy street. She then
proceeded to making an outline, and I was born. For 39 nights and days, my
creator smiled as she stared at me lovingly. I am her first creation ever.
My
first readers were young adults, who just skipped through the pages. I was
disappointed, my creator was so proud of me, had she been wrong all the time?
Those kids left me alone without fully understanding the depths of my very
existence. I was dismayed. Until he
picked me up and sat in a corner, first staring at my cover. He opened me and I
felt that he is different from my first readers. What he did was not just
opening a story and reading it, he opened my trust to them, those who know how
to decipher me, but not attempting to. He opened me to the possibility that my
creator still believes in. That I can make a change. We were together for a
full moon with that boy. He is not that fast of a reader, but I did not mind,
as long as he can get what my creator had instilled in my pages. But that
satisfaction did not last long for I then realized the reason why he is a
slow-reader. His eyesight is leaving him, betraying him slowly, teasing him
with glints of vibrant colors, then gone the next. I wished, I wished that he
will be, can be able to read me until my last pages, where answers are stated.
My wish was not granted, that boy whom I trusted so much lost his sight and
with that, his passion, his love and hope. He hated the world, and I belonged
to the world. He threw me away. I was angry, but no, I cannot do anything but
wallow in self-pity. How cruel. All I wanted was to be read, to be sung to the
hearts of the readers, and I was failing, failing miserably.
I
I was at the heart of a library then, when my second interesting reader found
me. She is a girl of 15 years, bright eyes filled with curiosity as she eyed
the books on the shelf I’m in. I’m screaming, “pick me!” and I might think that
she heard me, because as she read my title, she smiled that bright smile of
hers and pulled me out, wiping the dust that covered me after staying in one
place for too long. She rented me out of that dingy place, and brought me to
her majestic home. I can say that she is rich, and must have loved books
because her room is filled with my kind. Unlike my first interesting reader,
she is fast; she read half of me in one sitting. The reason, I heard, is that
she has other books lined up for her to read. She must complete my unveiling.
She must read me until the very last line. Only then can I rest, only then can
I make my creator proud. Only then can I know what lies beyond the pages that
the boy had explored, for I do not know it myself. I will not discover what was
written in my last pages, not until someone read it for me. And no one had done
that still. I’m getting impatient because this girl, my second interesting
reader had stopped reading me. She must have some activities, I thought to
myself. I never lost hope that she will see me again and continue where she
left off. Waiting is a pain. Especially waiting for something which doesn’t
have a definite time.
She
arrived at her room with puffy teary eyes. Someone must have wronged her. I
want to console her when she turned to me with blazing eyes, angry menacing
eyes. It was then that I felt something was off. What did I do wrong?. Why is
she staring at me with eyes full of disgust? She picked me up and that was the
only time that I wasn’t pleased when someone took me. I’m scared. She picked me
and threw me to the wall. It hurts like hell, my pages were falling off. Before
I knew it, another book crashed into my lying form in the floor. What is she up
to? Why is she trying to destroy us? Her book, books that she spent time with?
I wished for her to just return me to the library where she took me from. The
worst thing came up next. She tore me, my pages, my whole being. It pained me,
seeing my pages scattered. And worse, those are my last pages. Tears were
flowing from my soul, I can feel sympathy from the other books, but like me,
they can do nothing. My last pages, those pages that I longed to explore so
much. If it is possible that I do have a heart, it must have been broken now.
If it is possible that I am alive, I must be dead by now. Her parents must have
heard her noise and came rushing to her room. They confronted her and she just
broke down. She said that her boyfriend dumped her for her bestfriend, they
betrayed her, and that she is depressed. So just because of petty issues like
that, she destroys? Is that the only reason why I’m now torn to pieces? Just
because she can’t handle some of the most normal things in life, she destroyed
me? How pathetic humans are. Breaking down from normal problems. I say normal
because I’ve been a witness to everyone who experiences them, and she is not
the only one who feels that kind of pain. They might not have the same dilemma,
but the pain is there. The boy opened my trust to them, and she closed it. Yes,
humans are complicated beings. They complicate things that would have been easierif
they just looked around and learned!!
Her mom picked me up and tried to fix me. For that I am grateful. But the fact
remains that I was destroyed and was now fixed. Who would take interest to read
me now? I was placed in a shelf in the living room where I remained for a
years. My wish when I was new had vanished long ago. I now enjoy myself in
watching how these humans live. I’ve witnessed a lot of happy times, wherein
all these beings do is to smile, they do smile a lot but then, I’m a book, I
know how to look into the emotions of humans because that is what I’m created
for, to bring out those emotions. They all have scarred hearts, they all have
their inner demons they try to fight off so hard every day. I had also
witnessed how humans end. Yes, this household had lost quite a few, and I’ve
witnessed how they cry so hard, and then laugh the next. I was there, silently
watching those happenings unfold before my eyes.
It was one of those gatherings that I spotted
my creator. I was so happy to see her, at the same time, ashamed. I failed her,
I did not change anything, heck, no one ever did complete me. But her
appearance lit up the fire again. My wish was returned to me. I want someone to
at least finish me. To at least make me understand why I am created. My creator
noticed me and asked for me. She took me and went to another library. I’m so
excited to stay there, because that would mean that someone might be able to
read me to completion. My hopes are so high that I nearly missed my creator and
the librarian’s conversation.
“This is the book that has been missing right?”
my creator said.
“Yes, that’s it, it was reported lost a year ago, and I’ve
taken interest in it,” the librarian took me and caressed my tattered covers with her gentle fingers.
“Even though I wrote no ending?”
“We are talking about life here. 20 years from now, 60 years
from now, 80 years from now, it will still go on. That’s the beauty of it,” she
replied, “stories...” Her last words faded, I wasn’t able to hear them.
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