Maybe we never were what I thought we were. Maybe the stories we had told, and the moments we had shared, were only in my imagination. Perhaps that's exactly what this is. This is my mind making such beautiful false truths. My thought of reality tarnished by wishful thinking. When in actually, I'm alone. A sad story, in an infant book store... So this is ny life. Nothing aside from a good read. A pathetic novel. Never to reach the top sellers.
I see my peers, all with such beautiful, known authors: John Green, Maggie Stiefvater, Stephanie Myers. With such beautiful creators, they're all bound to reach the top of the charts. The Fault In Our Stars made it so far. I just knew she would. Shiver, Twilight, Paper Towns. All made the top of the charts. All amazing. But I have doubt that I'll ever leave this shelf. I'm a boring book. Boring cover, Boring words, Boring plot line.
My story is about a bird. Sad, and alone. What ever happens to sad birds? They get hurt. Her wings have been broken, and she no longer has direction. She has no control. She's scared, and alone, when she meets this cat. How cheesy, right? Yes, but so meaningful.
In this sad, and lost's little bird's state, this cat takes such pity on her. The cat had desired so badly to consume this pitiful little bird, but he couldn't. Instead, he helps her. He heals her. They laughed, they told stories, they shared moments... They fell in love. The oddest pair my author could think of. The differences had never mattered to them. But it matters to us. But why?
I may not be the best story, but I'm a great book. I smell of coffee, and happiness, and sadness, and tears. I may not look the best, but my untarnished spine, and slick cover make me special enough. I'm b beau book, and I'm a beautiful story. And just like I realize that, you must as well. You're a beautiful person, with a beautiful story. Things may not have been the perfect, happy love story from cover to cover. But to find your happy ending, you have to finish the book.
