I live a paper life, always turning pages. I have knowledge that things can always change chapters, and stories. The people that read me always change and the care that the used with me deteriorates, I am broken, beaten and torn, used till I break. One day my cover fell off, and I was thrown away, in the trash with other things that people now had no need for. Things that weren’t shiny or new like the books on the shelves, people judging me because of my looks, refusing to read my story. In the trash I begin to see a figure, one with a pile of old books in her hands, just like me.
She reaches in and picks me up tentatively, and squeals hugging me close to her chest. I don’t understand why, all the new books with shiny covers were inside the library doors,but she picked me. I begin to tell her my story, page to page, from my back cover to my title.
Then when she was done I sat on a dusty shelf full of broken books with missing pages and covers, I feel at home, where I belong. At last a place for me so share my story to those who look past my cover.
When I was on the shelf in the library I realised, you just need the right person to pick you up to turn the page.