I started out on a hill side moving with the breeze, misty mornings, chilly nights, until I got lost, to find myself in a paper factory.
The stages to and after were innumerable, impossible to figure if I was in or out, to finally be bound as a book after the prints within.
There I was stacked with others similar to me at the store, waiting to be shipped in trucks to destinations. A book keeper came along with lists, pulling out titles for dispatching.
His index and thumb fingers found me, and my journey as an individual began, I was covered with layers of bubble pack and a brown paper, addressed, computer coded, and passed on to a courier.
After passing through many hands and places, I was finally handed over at a destination, and placed at a pedestal of notice.
It was evening when the master of the house arrived, I was ritually unboxed with care, precision and feel, after he was washed and clean.
The sight of the master and of the printed form within was a smile, either way.
After the initial excitement was over, a transparent sheet was wrapped around, with the help of scizzors and staplers, to keep me safe and neat for the years to come.
On the top corner of the first page, my master puts his name in flowing style, and adds the date and year for remembrance.
Under the soft reading lights of the night, my pages are flipped with dignity, and I see emotions flow.
I become a part of his collection to be read for now and later, giving him different interpretations with his growing age, as he reads through Me.
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