The people/ chapters of life.
Earth is one big novel. Like a harry potter book with many endless chapters and pages filled with the author's imagination plus ours.. Every single page in the book is like a single human.. We get turned, flipped, tossed, ripped, marked on, ignore, criticized, instafamous for a few glances, but at the end of the day. .We are all part of the same book. We all get read and left.. At this very moment we feel ourselves becoming the slither piece of a page in a book that never gets finished.. Why do you think we all die but are lost once dead, spiritually. We choose to read what we feel is the truth but the truth is what that person feels inside. Not many know the mistakes made only make the page longer, we crave the adrenaline, we want and need the feeling of wanting love and being highlighted yet an emphasized three lined poem.. Every Time your finger slides on the paper and you feel the slice of your skin, our words get a little dirty, a little mismatched. The harry potter novels, the Stephen King novels, are meant to fit our mentality, with our imaginations combined as to where in the real world we don't use imagination simply because people fear. We fear the truth, the pain, judgement etc., but every new page comes with new words, new pieces, new lifespan events that grasp us. You don't know who or what you are or whether you've been okay until you turn the next page, so when you second guess yourself and let doubt fill your mind, you let the reader skip lines and pages.. For example, you're reading this right now, let me control your thoughts for a moment.. You look in the mirror, it's ugly. Third time this week, called fat, worthless, unwanted, a s*** but you've never had a boyfriend. You can cry but you still want to die, you can not take it. The names, the labels, Every. Single. Thing that they said flash upon your very own mirror. The tormenting, name calling, the seclusion. You run home, but mom's not home. So you scream but no one hears, you pound but no one feels. Dig a hole, 6 ft. deep, jump in, no one notices. Climb out once again attempting to pretend you're okay. Tears falling left, right, endlessly gasping for a breath, with no one to help. Go find a rope, tie your noose along the ceiling fan, climb up, last breath and tear fall. Your phone vibrates, last check and it's, " you're beautiful =, no matter what anyone says." do you commit suicide? Or do you control your reading, your story, every crucial piece of your page gets read, edited, determined by everyone who shouldn't have this effect. As you progress on, you write your own page. The hours you spend on it, the mistakes you make, the choices you've come across.