A Rorschach Butterfly

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. 

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