Tarnished Books
I flipped the page of the book. A thought. Popping into my head. I shut the book. One of my hands rests on the book's spine. The title is broken by the spine's creases. The creases are like the rings of a tree displaying the life of the book. I return to the page held by my index finger. I stop to look around. I search for the black .03 pen. Ah. Yes. I pick up the pen. Touching its point to the page. A scratching noise from the touch of pen to paper. My hand stops. I don't remember when I started this practice. I think of a time I roamed through the library or bookstore. Searching with only a feeling toward my next adventure. Then a voice compelled me to stop in a section. My hand traced over books not exactly knowing what I was in search of. When I would hear the soft "stop". I would open the books to find pen markings, and highlighted, or underlined words on the page. The book was desecrated. There were other times the books had small written sentences or paragraphs. My eyes try to decepher the runaway chicken scratch. Others were left with questions or asterisks. People were vandalizing property. The property of ideas, thoughts, and the imagination of the authors. Their carelessness, indifference, or arrogance scrawled away the beauty of the author's words.
I would discard the books immediately. As if touching those battered books would trace curses through my fingertips up my arms. Infuriated. Would someone write on another's painting? These markings seemed meaningless. Like a trashed stall in a bathroom with its sharpie'd writing. Not only were people inconsiderate. They were not deserving. Had I any more righteousness then, I would have searched for these perpetrators. The scratching sound comes to an end. I pause. In thought. My hand moves to the right corner of the page. The time now finds me littering the pages with my thoughts, feelings, and confusion. When did I begin to do the very thing I detested? I only remember squeezing a book with excitement from an author's familiarity. How could someone know my life at this exact time in depth? A sentence that helped me set a boundary. A passage that opened up the eyes of my soul. A flutter of love whenever two lovers I wanted desperately to be met. Philosophical questions that persisted. Encouraging questions about what it means to live. The words spoke. They touched something in me. They ushered me to confirm my existence every time I marked the page. Making love between my thoughts and the authors' words.
I was too young in age and spirit to understand those markings then. Their proof of existence. Their affirmation of living. Souls like mine who made love with the author's words. Had these people too attempted to shift their narratives? Inspired. Stimulated into action. Or imagination. I once preferred my books pristine. Untouched. Pure. Now I search for books with handwriting. I treat them as precious diary entries for they reveal something of importance. That words are magnificent living art.
