Pain is like a novel

One that you can't go on reading any longer

The torments, the burden of the story, the shattering of dreams...

Seems like a mirror reflecting the darkest corner of your heart

So you shut the novel down and without a bookmark hide it beneath a hundred good books

But every once in a while you feel the urge to open it

To touch the scars of its pages, to reminish the tragedies of every chapter...

And yet it only remains in your mind!

I often wonder if such books of people were gathered...

Don't you think it would have been enough to fill a library?