Let's begin with something old. In all honesty, it is not always the new things in life that gets my attention. A story doesn't need to continue page by page, leaving all the flipped pages aside. Sometimes, when I read it backward, or take a random page from what I have already read, sometimes... I'd see a different story.
Things won't look so happy, or so dark. I would even begin asking; "is this the same story?" The words would take shape and turn into something else. I wouldn't call it evolution, or metamorphosis. I'd like to refer to it as mutilation, butchery, devolution, or distortion. Some might say that I am too grim or ill minded, but aren't we all? We all have that pitch black darkness in the core of our beings, many just hide theirs quite well. Now, as any unorganized and messed up mind would say, let's get back to the point.
Books. After finishing them I'd read backwards, or examine a few pages at a time. I would even read a chapter over and over again. The words repeat, and they are always the same ones printed on the book. Every comma, period, every elipsis and semi-colon... they are always same. Yet, every time I do this the story changes. It does.
Stories of bravery turn into a game of fools, a run in the dark, an unavoidable pirouette, and a battle of cowardice. Love becomes hatred, envy, jealousy, joy, and a sense of false security. All of them change, and isn't it amazing? That things which should have never meant these now control the flow of the story. I'm sure that the author had something in mind while making their own book. Wait. That might be wrong. They have a lot of things in their mind, and that is always true.
To me, a book will always be a story that was saved from the verge of collapsing. Whatever spare pieces were left of the universe of ideas was put on piece of paper, printed on ink and left for someone to hold it, always to see it but never to actually read it. Maybe that's why words always hurt, because we all have our own use of them. Because we all use words in a unique way, completely our own and never any other's.
A philosopher once said that we use prose to escape being speechless, to say what we want without being limitted. I'd like to believe him, so let me finish this hymn with a different tune.
So let's begin with the past.
Let's begin with things that have passed.
Let's talk of begginings as if they were the last,
take these words in ourselves although they're just masks.
Let's not take things too fast.
Let's begin with the past.