The library is my home
I spent my day inside my shelf looking at people that comes in to read
I am just an ordinary book and plain looking
Nothing is special about me
I have torn pages inside
Maybe the reason why people never picked me to read
I've been in this shelf for so long
I watched the other books being moved to another, and new books that arrives in my shelf
I call it "My Shelf" because I've been here for a long time that I feel like it belongs to me now
I've seen people pass by my shelf everyday
Some looks interested with me, but never try to read me
Some tried to touch me, but never opened a page of me
Some uses me as something other than reading me
I'm used to it and I am okay with it now
I don't want people to read me anymore
Which is weird, because I was made to be read
I am a book, not a display or a toy.
One day, a man walked towards my shelf
He picked me up
I watched him wipe away little dust that covers the top of my cover and tried to open a page
He seems to struggle with it
as a book that hasn't been opened for a long time
My pages seems to be bound together now
But for the first time in my entire life,
Someone finally picked me up to read my story.
He tore a page of me and I was confused as to why?
But I didn't care because he is the only person that picked me
out of this big room, full of shelves with millions of books
HE PICKED ME.
But as the day goes by, he was bored of reading me
So he put me on a table and left
with my pages remained opened
I feel the wind rushes through the pages and reveals all of the damaged pages of me
I am now an opened book with no shelf.
"I have no home now"
Nobody ever touched or tried to read me again
Even the librarian didn't bother to return me to my shelf
A man walked to the table where I was left
Picked me up, and read me
I can see that he liked reading me because of the smile he puts on his face whenever he flips another page
Then he takes out a piece of paper
enough for him to draw me
That is wonderful!
And when I thought this day was going to be a normal day to me,
He took out another book on his small bag, and looked at me again
While holding the other book on his hand
Like he is choosing which one he is going to keep.
I heard a thud sound on the floor, like something just fell
Next thing I know, I am on the floor
Again. Abandoned.
Sorrow starts to grow in me as I stayed still lying on the cold floor
I have no shelf. Not even a table
Just the coldness of the floor
And the sound of footsteps of people walking
The chances of people that will pick and read me is low
But I guess it's better this way
The days have passed and I am still here on the floor.
Torn, lonely and cold.
I can see other books on the floor too
Maybe this is our fate , fate of the unlucky ones
But there is still a small percent of hope that someday
I will be treated better
This story isn't all about a book by the way.