“At least!” I sigh as I finally take hold of the book.
My mind rejoices because maybe I will make sense of it all. I flip through the pages, my eyes in search of the flow of the story. I try reading through the lines hoping to make sense but nothing makes sense yet. All I get is a bullet shot right through my eyes with no warning, yet it penetrates deep down into my heart only to deepen the hole.
In desperation to understand the story or at least its ending, I flip back to the introduction, getting back slowly, reading through each paragraph. I search for the truth behind every struggle, hoping to understand the twist of themes, but not even the tone, diction and settings make sense, well at least I think so.
Dear author, I am aware that this is your story and that only you can make sense of it and even know the ending. I know that you had it all planned even before you began to write and one thing I am convinced of is that there is beauty in the story you’re writing, something beautiful will come out of its twisted themes. Although sometimes I really wish I could make sense of it, because after all it’s your story but nothing really makes sense to me.
I may not like the flow of certain paragraphs, but I do know that there are a few that curve my lips and lighten my eyes.
So I’ve decided that I will give you back the book and let you finish the story you have started. I’m giving you full control and refusing to put my mind in a state of confusion while trying to make sense of it all.
Take it creator, take the book author and finish your story. I might not understand it, but I do know that some will be inspired by your book, someone will change how they see things through the story in your book, someone will not lose hope because of the book and that in itself satisfies me. So I say to you, take it and continue your story. Let your will be done.
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