Once upon a time there was a book called, well, Book. I owned Book and, during my childhood, shared everything with him – from interesting lessons at my school to my insipid lunch packets. We spent many lazy afternoons lying on the green carpet-like grass talking to each other about the world at large. I generally did most of the talking.
During my teenage nobody cared to listen to me, let alone understand me. In all this tumult, Book was my only solace. I regularly opened my heart out to Book but he never complained of boredom. Sometimes when I was angry, I would say hurtful things to Book and he would still never leave me.
Then I left Book.
Teenage angst gave way to youthful callousness. I was not interested anymore in Book or in any of his ilk. I derived pleasure from other, seemingly harmless means. For ten long years I did not even think of Book. It was not until I was diagnosed with a terminal illness, begotten of my means of pleasure that I thought of Book again.
I went home and searched through a sizeable pile of clothes and toys that I had outgrown and there Book was as cheerful as ever. The spiders had used his spine for support and the dust gave him an archaic look. Despite that he smiled back at me the way he used to during my childhood days. This time Book spoke to me and I listened. Wisdom sealed within him poured out and I realized the worth of what I had ignored. The memories took me away to a beautiful time and I wept for joy.
They said that the end was painful. They also said that Book lay on my bosom long after my shadow had left me.
