A Book Read

A lot of people think of me as an open book but I have realized that their scrawny brains do not know what their talking about. I think that there is a epic difference between the three major types of reading. The first one is when the person reads all the words present in the text but thinks nothing of it. They just read it for the hell of it, but they get a completely wrong impression about what the book means. They just want to see what the words say, so that is their only seek. They feel nothing of it; they just read a book to know what happens to be able to say they read it. The truth is they took no effort in trying to go past what is said in ink. The second type of reading is when someone reads only part of the book to just see what they want to see. In this case the person already has their mind made up in what they are going to encounter throughout the book. They twist every single word to fit the little plastic mold they have created. All of this in order to prove their point. The third type of reading is the one I prefer. It’s when the person that is reading devotes themselves to the words. They let the words carry them away, they do the intent of seeing what these words mean and enjoy the entirety of its exquisiteness.

To me the ink is when it all starts, it’s the beautiful way of expressing a feeling or a story, yet of course behind every book there is something more to experience. I feel deception because if I am an open book it’s because I am so curious about who can actually go beyond the surfacing outer layer. But then again, I am simply asking too much. I frequently forget that the people around me are selfish, sluggish, and above all, artic. Maybe someday someone will take notice of how desperate I am for them to read me, not the person I look like or they want me to be, but the person I am.

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