The Reader Turned Author

“So now I’m forging ahead past all the plutocrats who sold me out. Go sob in your bed, if life is twice as pretty once you’re dead. Then send me a card. I’m still the optimist though it is hard, when all you want to be is in a dream.”    ~Say Anything

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I open up this book.
It looks like a good read.
A good cover, old, and full of promise.
The first few pages grip me and I dive in a little further.

One hundred pages in things start to turn.
The pages change and the light that was in my eye begins to fade.
I really wish I could stop reading,
But then I realize this book is my life and I an not the reader but the authror.

A non fiction tale of a boy who wished for the world and received coal.
A story decided by false senses of control.
A story laid out from the middle, to the beginning and then the end.
Thank God the end is always where it is supposed to be.

Disjointed pages make for a difficult read.
Dreams that came true and then failure ensues.
People lost in time and wondering why they had to be killed off for the narrative.
Maybe once I reach the end of the chapter it will make sense.

Of course that is not the case.
Each chapter ends on a cliff hanger.
Your dream fulfilled,
But then you remember that you have more life to live, and you run scared like a little kid.

A funny thing about life is that it keeps on going.
A wonderful thing about life is there is a hope that never lets go of you.
A roller-coaster ride of emotion going up and then down.
A dichotomy between what they say and what makes you run away.

I turn the page and something different catches my eye.
A glimmer at the end of this road.
A little spark that invites even the coldest of hearts to its burning coals.
He starts to run… I start to run towards the brief light that lingers.

As I continue to write and try to reach my full potential
As I run to a hope that for some reason continues to shine through.
As I choose to believe instead of doubt.
Maybe even the middle can be great for a little cynic like me.

But then again even my warmest days lead me astray.
And the cold ones bring me comfort because I stay inside, instead of coming out to play.
I read a bit further and then decide to sit on my hands and read a play.
Maybe the stage directions will give me more insight than this dusty book full of blue and gray.

I’be hidden a note, it’s pressed between pages that you’ve marked to find your way back. It says, ‘Does he ever get the girl?’ But what if the pages stay pressed, the chapters unfinished, the stories too dull to unfold? Does he ever get the girl?”   ~Dashboard Confessional

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