Tiny Tales | ✔️

32-A Book

Come.

Let me tell you my story.

It doesn't matter if you skip the introduction.

What matters is the first chapter.

What matters is that you are here now.

We look at each other. There is something comfortable in me.

I talk, but at the same time, I listen to you. The phrases are short, simple. They seem close to one another.

You could tell them yourself. That's why you like me. Because I am relaxed and normal. I don't expect much.

I will speak in an ordinary way about ordinary things but everything will sound extraordinary.

You will fall in love quickly.

Maybe you will believe that you can no longer stand a day, an hour, nor a second without me.

That the air has become thicker, that you are breathing deeper, that you have never been so thirsty before.

I will want to tell you everything. Discover my questions, my doubts, drag you into my fears, to find out for how long you can bear with me.

Maybe your thoughts will become restless, or my questions will become loud.

That is the signal that you have read half of me.

You can follow me to the end if you'd like. Or you can leave me waiting on the shelf, calling me complex and a little tiring.

Every time you take me back for a bit of a light read before bed, you will have a guilty conscience because the story lost its thread.

And I will continue to wonder with the same fire that burned in me when you paid your attention to me for the first time.

I will innocently believe that you still want to pry me open, although I will already know that your thoughts about me have been acidic for a long time now. That now I am a burden from which one must flee quickly.

Then you will stop trying.

And I will still lie in wait, dirty, pathetic, broken.

Covered with a fat layer of dust, shoved into the box, stripped, ashamed, lying behind the closet.

It's terrible, isn't it?

To disappear from one's mind like that, never fully read until the end.

***
A/N: Theme song: "Portishead: Rip."