"Wondering is this treasure or is this trash"

My eyes, my eyes. Heavy eyes that weight so much now. Will I make it? I wish I could, I really do. And it kills me to see the possibility here in front of me, impersonated by this book. All I have to do is try. Please, don’t laugh at my easy word.

I can’t, can I? Who am I fooling? I’m being swollen by a giant book. I look so tiny and small. Fragile, as thin class. It knows more than me. How much do I have to know?! I don’t know. Don’t know the much or the enough. Or even the less, or the more. What the fuck do I know?

I know I’m being swollen by a giant book, which knows more than I do. Much more. More or enough or plenty or everything. Anything… since all I know is I’m so insignificant in front of it. The huge book is swallowing me alive. Or already dead. I don’t know.

All I know is I’m being eaten by a giant book. His teeth, the sharp-edged-pages pierce my skin. He carves my flesh with his shiny edges, shiny teeth, shiny pages. And I’m a blur of the unknown.

Because all I know is that I’m being chewed by a heavy book, with its numbered pages, those 1000 teeth sinking into my skin and bones. What are left of me are bones, now broken bones. Sliced flesh and pocked skin. Ripped or rapped, just a matter of subtly difference. A vowel that clashes me. Clashed by the weight of the huge book and all its words.

So many words. He’s made of beautiful, long, difficult words. And I’m made of easy words. Simple words, while his complex sentences laugh at me. What a shiny grin. What a loud laugh. I didn’t realize I was so funny to be laughed at. I didn’t realize my attempt was so silly and foolish. And I know I’m incapable of tearing that smart grin off of your pages.

I’m sorry. Laugh with me, would you? I don’t want to cry. I’ve been so good. Let’s share some laughs. Laugh at my face. At all the things you know and I don’t. At my to-be-crushed world, my to-be-crushed dreams. My crushed world, my crushed dreams. This book has crushed everything. I crash. I clash. I’m being destroyed by a gigantic book and all its importance. All its authors. All its glory. And who am I? Not important, not an author, not glory. Simply a tired being with tired eyes under a giant book that’s annihilating me.

Or am I just hiding behind it? Oh, my dear shield. Thank you for being my brand new excuse to failure.

*Shiny grin*