Read Me

I am stuck. Awaiting your return on the shelf where you discarded me, I feel a little melancholy, slightly cheated, and quite forgotten. Surrounded, yet I’m still alone within my bindings—dusty, untouched, unnoticed. At some point my status changed from “important” to “decoration.” What am I?

My story is quite fantastic you know, but no one inquires within. No one cares to scour the delicate lines inside this cover. So, I am dusty. A dusty, thick volume left on the shelf. I could transport you anywhere if you would just let me—maybe on an adventure hunting treasure, a perilous journey with magical beasts, or to 18^th century Britain. Undoubtedly, my contents contain useful knowledge about the world or life.

But all that binds me is a leathery, warm brown, utterly plain save a few filigree on the spine, so you surf the internet, watch TV, or go out dancing. Your life is an amusement park, vastly more enticing than any imagery I may produce. You live, but I still wait for you. With an unappealing exterior, I surely have pictures of quaint scenes inside—I’m not sure I’ve never looked. I probably have a story or message, and I possibly have pictures, but you’ve never even peeked.

You take me entirely for granted. I’m useful when you need the window propped open, have to squash a bug, or yearn for a paper weight, but you neglect that I’m perishable.You assume I have no feelings, but all I scream is "Read me!"