If I were a book, I'd be sitting pretty on the bookstore shelf and as people walked by, I'd be wishing they would just stop long enough to take a look at me. Once they see my intriguing title, I would want them to look at my fine cover, which dazzles the eye and opens the mind. As they flip through my pages, I would feel all warm and fluttery. "Take me! Buy me!"
I would gasp in delight if I were taken home and placed in a prominent location. Yes, right over there. Right on top of that stack of books by the bed, waiting in anticipation to be read.
As a book, if I am a good one, a fast read, one of those books you just can't put down, that you read all night; if I am one of those books, then my life will be over soon, unless I am passed on to another delighted reader. Oh, how wonderful to be held in another one's hands, to have the reader's full attention, to make them laugh, to make them cry just because I exist!
When the very last page is read and my cover is closed once and for all, I know the excitement and pleasure of my life will be over. I will end up on the third shelf on the right side, next to The Life of Cleopatra. She might snub her nose at me. But I would have the satisfaction of knowing I had served my purpose. But, after a while I know I would just fall asleep from boredom, go into a trance. What else is a well worn book to do?
I'd like to believe that books reincarnate. When I'm asleep on the shelf never to be touched again, I'd like to think I've been printed up all new and spiffy and entered a book store once again with a great title, and crisp pages that invite a new reader to pick me up and take me home. Perhaps this time I'll be a fascinating historical novel.