It is okay to be. (he says to himself). It is okay to be. (his mind emphasizes the words, he transliterates the image of the written words manually). He takes one dirty finger, and presses up against the every-so-slightly raised text of the novel he found lying in the street. It is okay to be. It is the only sentence his finger seems to understand. It’s the italics that are throwing him off.
The rest of the pages are blank. So it isn’t a novel.
A diary then. Yes, the letters are not raised. They are engraved into the paper. Pulling his finger away (with force, because it was surprisingly difficult to retract his prized hand, he could almost see the strings attached), he slapped the book shut and tossed it all the way to the other side of the city.
No, not city.
He tossed it all the way to the other side of the road.
The idea of him tossing anything to the other side of the city was ridiculous. His arms were too weak, with only one small (tiny, really) hand to grip said anything, anyway. It is okay to be.
It was too late, the words were already imprinted inside of him. Inside his very being (which was okay to – apparently). The part of him that knew that was already growing, pretty soon, he probably wouldn’t even notice that only one of his arms ends in a hand with five fingers, while the other tapers off into … well, any how.
It didn’t matter.
It is okay to be. (He knows this now). So when he crosses the street, and picks the novel (that is not a novel) back up, he does so with the ease of one who’s completely at … ease (trust that he’ll work on re-imagining actions later… in a slightly more articulate manner) with himself (if not his narration of his self). Because it is okay to be.
Created: Apr 04, 2010Document Media