Supporting the spine of that threadbare book, he quickly
leafed through those worn-out pages. The letters spluttered across the sheet in
random bunches, hanging onto the lines like it were a cliffhanger. The typeface
cunningly realigned itself and spread out its gossamer sail, to take its new reader
through a well traversed route.
The tired characters had said the same lines and repeated their
actions across all 1495 pages. They walked across pages and complained about arthritic pain.
“We’ve been overused and forgotten. No one remembers us for
our valiance!” Can one always care about
the new reader when the repetition feels so degenerate? So the main characters went on strike, probing the weaker ones
to take sides. They plunged away from the staple seamed center and chose to
float away, drifting apart on pages that chose different directions.
He reached out to the now emaciated book in his hand, and
gathered irrelevant parts of the main story. And mused as he gathered the ripped
sheets, trying to make sense of the whole from its scattered parts.
He critically analyzed the story-line, finding fault in the one who penned this plot.
He critically analyzed the story-line, finding fault in the one who penned this plot.
Thinking he'd nailed the epiphany of the author, when he hadn’t even left
the shore.
* For 3WW** Photo - The Landscape with Butterflies by Salvador Dali
