INTP. Aries with a Scorpio moon.
I am an ambiguous book waiting to be read. I am filled with hidden passages and pages of dexterity. Only to be seen by pure eyes. I am tainted by ink and time, worthless to most. But in the hands of true intellect, can transform into a possession greater than anything money can buy. To appreciate such a novel, one must read between the lines and distinguish the difference between flaw and perfection. A novel does not think, nor does it understand what it truly has to offer, and will become lost in literacy- Only to be found by the keeper of such knowledge.My cover has been scratched, torn and beaten. I am rough around the edges. Day by day goes by where I am overlooked by this younger generation. Children with cell phones, Ipods, Ipads by age five. There was a time when people desired me. A time when people were interested in what I had to share and wanted to share me. I guess you can only read a book so many times before you quit learning from it, or just stop caring what it has to teach. There will be a day, yes, there will be a day again when someone’s curiosity will lead them to my dusty, secluded spot on the shelf. They will look past my torn and frayed cover, and wonder what secrets I hold. We will indulge in stories, and become lost in imagination. We will laugh together, confide in each other, and share our dreams with each other. I want to share my dreams with the world. But then again, I am just a book. Pressed wood glued together. A canvas if you will. A canvas with some body else’s ideas and philosophies printed on every page. Never to share my own with a soul. To think a book could talk is absurd. So I will sit for the rest of time. I will sit, waiting for my voice to be heard. An illusion of your imagination. Unhappy with my fate, but imprisoned by what, not who I am. I long to at least be positioned at the very brink. To have the freedom of choice to walk the tight rope of unfettered complacency and dissatisfaction. But no, I am a character under constant surveillance of the conceptions that define me by my name.If an ambiguous book could talk, it would yell from the bottom of its soul. Its voice reaching an intense decibel of incomprehensible shrills, thirsting for acknowledgment. Neglected perceptions sting its psyche like wasps. Bound by leather straps that make it nearly impossible to see what this book really is. So I will now retreat to my spot on the shelf and reclusive eternity. I will pray that one day my voice will be heard, and you will listen, to an ambiguous book.