I am a book.
I am also a storyteller and a door to another world.
I am also trash.
I used to be considered important.
I would entertain many for hours on end,
and when I stopped, there would be protests.
Now, I sit on a pile of trash.
I would like to talk to the others there, but they do not reply.
Now, instead of having me, they have phones.
The transition started slowly and I was used less and less.
Then, one day I was thrown into a big, dark bag. It smelled rancid.
From there I was thrown into the landfill.
When I first got there, I thought, “I shall sit here until all my pages have fallen out.”
That was what I thought.
Today, I am uncovered by a man.
He is big and tall with a deep voice.
He mutters to himself as he flips through my pages.
It feels so good to be used again.
I am a book about a land far away, a tale of heroes and villains.
There are vicious beasts and good and just kings.
The man stays up all night.
He paces back and forth;
his mind is so hard at work
that I can practically see the wheels in his brain turning.
Suddenly, he grabs a pencil and paper.
He makes long, dramatic motions with the pencil.
A few minutes later he is done.
A beautiful drawing of a beast is looking straight at me.
The beast seems so familiar; then it hits me.
It is part of me, it is
part of the story I tell.
The man draws more and more characters of my story.
Then one night, he grabs me and the drawings and goes out to the town center.
He hangs up the drawings on a big brick wall.
The next day the people of the town gather around and stare.
My story is there, through the pictures.
He gives me to the town, and I am read once again.
My story is now told.
I am used again.
