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To the one who reads.

I'm a complicated book. The kind that gets picked up and tires you on the first page like a long novel by Victor Hugo. And you put it back on the shelf in the old library and you leave.

And I, lonely, long for someone who can read me. Some stranger from faraway who reads old complicated literature. Who understands my structure and doesn't miss a single comma. Someone who knows the value of how I'm crafted.

This stranger, from another continent, will make me want to come alive. Jump out of the yellow pages and speak to him. And wrap my arms around him and show him all the history and images I took away with me from the stained papers.I'd like to look him in the eyes, and tell him he indeed knows nothing, and that's the only truth. I know nothing.

But our nothingness, dear reader, is much more than the everything of someone else. Our nothingness, is something I can not bring out and let go off. Our nothingness is beautiful and dangerous. Our nothingness conquers all.

I'd like to look him in the eye, this thorough reader, and tell him a few of the nothings he knows. Tell him he can pick me and read me over and over again. Thank him for handling me with such care and intense interest. Ask him to take me with him everywhere he goes.

I never wanted to be a heavy book on a shelf. I want to be a pocket guide that travels the world, but you, who can understand me, are too far away, my favourite reader. I have to be happy with the place of honour in somebody's shelf.

Somebody who will handle me with so much care, he won't even dare to open me thinking my thin paper cannot handle turning pages. Somebody who, will know me for a masterpiece, but will never know why.

Because he will not notice the comma in the middle of the third sentence of the third page. The one that shouldn't be there, but has a strong reason to be written that way. He will not, because he doesn't know that we all know nothing.

He will not know what the hell this writer is trying to say. Or what in the world that verse about meeting me half way in Tokyo is about. He will know my price and worth, and he will have me in hard cover. But he will never read me like you do. Because he won't try to.

If I stop being written with a sub-plot of you and write for him instead. I'm afraid. I'm so afraid I'll have nothing to write about. I sometimes wish you'd stop reading and allow my letters to fade...

I would not struggle anymore at all.

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