When I was little my brother, in an attempt to prove his God-like skills to my sister and I, put my childrens books in the oven. He was trying to highlight the scientific fact that the paper wouldn't melt or burn above or beyond a certain temperature. Of that he was sure. He was so certain and confident in what he said, he was unfaltering in what he knew. So sure that he really put our books in the oven, our beloved stories that we held so dear to our heart.
He was right, the paper didn't burn, it didn't ignite. Nothing happened to the paper. Not a damn thing. We nervously sat, shrieking and screaming, clutching his lean, stronger than our arms begging him to pull the books out and as we did, the glue and the binding that held those invincible pages together began to slowly cook. The books pages began to come apart and soon those stories were less cohesive units but just seperate pages with oozing goop, warm and soft around them. The books were ruined, pages intact.
He had been so confident, but there had been something that he had not accounted for. There are always things we don't account for. My brother, like most of my family, is wise, and has since learned to take into consideration more than just the pages. He doesn't always see the story for the book. My family, for example, sees me now as a law student. I am, taking the lsat prep courses to buy myself some time to see if that is where I should end up, or if I should go where I see myself, TFA or someother noble cause that I deem equally worthy and would be just as priviledged to work for.
In the mean time, I try to put all the pages in order for everyone to read but it seems like they were never meant to go in the right order to begin with. At least not in my stories .
No comments:
Post a Comment