Of All The Open Books

On Independence Day I find my scripture; spitting venomous ambiance in every direction.

I find solace in turning the pages of this book. Marred and maltreated in previous hands, the frayed pages still hold so much beauty. Every line flows effortlessly into the next, narrating through over a decade's worth of insecurities, and outlining foreign plots. Bound with dark leather, its words sear through my flesh, and play in my head repeatedly; skips on the record.

Nobyo.
Skip.
Nobyo.

I ache from the literary induced emotions. For after these last few years, feeling is abnormal. Suppress, suppress, cracks in the pavement, broken backs. Cigarette in hand, i shake, i smile. Being happy has always made me uneasy.

The prose turns its back on me, and slowly begins to leave. The words become poetry. Every punctuation is fluid, rhythmic. Still, they lack reason. A free-fall of letters that combine slowly, building a wall of sounds. A moment of tension, a release, strings echoing, mourning the loss of my inhibition. I would break down, and burst into tears from the emotion, but everyone knows that hysteria isnt hysteria when you are the only one who witnesses it.

Never before have i so intently anticipated turning a page...