Some pages are quite inked and some quite unwritten, some pages are quite torn and some quite perfect, some pages are quite missing and some quite there, some are quite ugly and some quite beautiful, indeed this book has all kinds of pages, all kinds of words and phrases, all kinds of events and happenings, yet this book fails to be a story, it fails to be a novel, it even fails to be a tale, but it fails not to interest me in every other way, not for the title of this book, not even because of the author no, but sometimes it just feels like I'm the hero of this book, times when we'd think the same thing, times when do the same things and times when we say the same things, what a stupid attraction to have, yet what a unique thing is to relate to ink and paper.
The hero's name yet to be known, the writer's intention yet to be seen, and their destiny's yet to be laid onto the stone, yet I read it every day, not caring for the world around me, whether it's been eaten in flames or devoured by ice, whether it's been thrown into the abyss or tossed down into hell, nothing could've distracted me from reading the new page of this book, this inked well written page that yet again pulls me even more towards this hero of theirs, I do wonder why does this author write only one page, but not enough to stop me from continuing to read a new page every day.
Maybe fate is the reason, maybe pure luck and chance, who knows? One thing I know is there must be a reason, a reason why this book feels strange, a reason why this hero is so real, a reason why those words are so true, there must be a reason, just like death has a reason for taking life, just like greed has a reason for wanting more, just like life has a reason to offer so little, and just like those reasons, this book's reason is yet to be known, I still don't find it in any page nor in any sentence, I tried to read between the lines, I tried to search for different meanings, I tried to see different words, yet nothing has changed, and so without a reason I lay here, holding this book of mine reading what the hero will do next, and waiting for the next page the next day.
A silly thing that is, to wait for the next page and not the next day, to wait for the next word not the next action, to wait for this hero and me, I forgot that ehat I'm reading is mere words, letters combined in a manner I don't even know about, drawings of a language so ancient that even my ancestors don't know how to decipher, but is it just that? I should know it is not, for I was the one to use these same words to make the ones I love happy, and for I was the one to use these same words to hurt the ones I hate, no words aren't just a simple combination, they aren't just a lost language of the old, they are my own keys to those people's hearts, my own back doors to to those people's brains and my own way to those people's souls, others use actions but in this world, my words speak louder, my shouts hit harder and my war cry is a scream of terror to those against me and a call of arms to those behind.
The waiting is the worst of all about this book, the anticipation of what to happen next, the feeling in your chest of the new tests you'll face, the new events you'll find out, the new ideas you'll get and the new actions your hero will do, nothing can get you ready for that and that is what bothers me the most, my strength is close to non against these words, my wits are not nearly as fast as theirs and my weapons are as if I used a stick to fight a sword of flaming steel, yet this courage, or foolishness, drives me to hold on, to fight their flaming steel with hearts of fire and souls of cold, to claim what once was and will be again my own, this book that I am, this hero that I am, this author that I am.
