Something about a cover of a book: torn, faded, beaten by time; a fate we share.
Before we open, before we witness the lives inside, we know these people have suffered the same condition as us: life, living. A stick floating on a river, determined to make it to its destiny; determined to set the course of its own fate; but fate is where we are, and forever changing.
The writer inside this one had his own illusions, each movement allusions to a place he knew to be his destiny; while ignoring the houses floating along side the shore. Inside, lived stagnation, or so he thought, as he floated aimless towards a better place; taken by the current. Somewhere. The faith and the unfaithful, bearing witness.
These are the sort of books we take down from the shelves, and skip through it, reading passages here and there. Because we are busy too, determined we are to reach a destination of our own making, our own Shangri-la.
To craft a life, worth of being admired by the mundane persons living inside the modest houses along the shore.
These are the sort of books the people on the shore take down from the shelves, and sit on a rocking chair, a blank for comfort and warmth; besides them, coffee, and Maria cookies on a plate.
Content, for the time being, to be where they are.
