Often times I felt as though each day returned to the same state of tedious repetition as those preceding it.
I’ve complained about this since a fold on the corner of my favorite book meant my life was at a certain end-
and yet, the response my mother gives has always remained static.
“You are the painter of your life and you may depict it as you please.”
I have tried to etch this monotonous phrase into my skull but even from an early age,
I have understood that I’m no Van Gogh.
I will never be Bansky nor will my crimes ever be treasured or valued.
I am just a commoner expected to fit the mold that those before have set.
But as of late, bent pages don’t seem to bother much, for the story within remains the same.
Despite the imperfection, I still fall in love with the characters;
I feel heartbreak just as I did before and satisfaction at the turn of each page.
But good books are filled with stains, crumbles, rips, tears, and damaged spines.
Novels contain these because we have taken them with us and they have been enjoyed.
The only ones that don’t are those that sit idle on a shelf in the corner of our bedrooms.
I now realize that the reason my existence felt so dull was because I kept it on that very shelf in fear of tatter and wear, as most of us are.
I now take it everywhere I can knowing that every drop of water,
every stray mark of a pen,
and every trip in the bottom of my bag just separates mine from it’s identical counterparts
and I think that’s something we all could drink to.