The yellowing of a book. It denotes distortion, age, imperfection. But without that yellowing, without that age, it has experienced nothing. It has experienced no sun, no brightness, no beautiful sunrises or sunsets.
Today, having somewhat gained a day by not having to work for my butcher and choosing to postpone my schoolwork, I indulged in a forlorn love. Today, having had a yesterday like too many others – prepping breakfast for students before the sun came up and donating blood with a smile on my face when the rain and sun came down, having my feelings be ignored by my workplace all the while in between (yesterday’s little piece of blackness-dodging referred to this ignorance of care) – I indulged in books. To best facilitate this, I picked up one of the Flemings, knowing it would require full engagement to keep my ass on the ground. When I picked up the next one, I realized that where I had placed my Bond books, there was a top and bottom yellowing. The middle was pristine. The middle though had never beared witness to the amazingness that the world has to offer.
I could live somewhere easier. I could marry someone easier. I could vocation somewhere easier. I could stay pristine that way. But I would never know sunrises or sunsets. I would never know life. I would never know love.