Magbasa

I’m told quite often that I’m an open book. Easy read. Plain as the nose on your face. What you see is what you get. And yet everyday I have no idea exactly how I’m feeling. How do these two realities exist? I’m an open book and yet I’m illiterate. How’s that for irony?

I’m an open book. But what does it say? Who reads a book just because it’s open? Don’t you want to pick one out for yourself from the bookcase, from your section of interest? Aren’t those books actually more interesting because you took the time to select it? Chances are you only ever read an open book in the waiting room at the dentist’s office on whatever abandoned page the last patient left it on absentmindedly. Is that what I am? Abandoned literature in the waiting room of life?? Ok. Ok. I’m reeling it in. Reeling it in.

I guess I really don’t mind being an open book. Thankfully, some people do take the time to take a read. But what I would like, is to take a more active part in writing what’s on the pages.