Roger Monk: Book Ends

I am at the end, book. I have turned your pages and this is where you go no further.

I close you slowly, book, and stare, flicking memory to this moment or that, pondering you in part or whole, my inner eyes giving me again that moment of excitement of fear of sorrow or joy that kept me thanking you.

You have given me secrets, book. Things that only you and I know in a particular way. Discoveries that I can take, but also leave for others to discover in their own way.

Do I wish to stay, book? Yes, because you have made me a little different and I can feel that difference, and no, because I am not you. I am my own book and it is different.

Thank you, book. You have felt my gratitude as I turned the leaves, one by one. Thank you for introducing me to the thoughts that only you hold.  Thank you for new worlds, all of which I can both take away and leave in your safe keeping. Thank you for permitting me to walk on your pathway of words that have come alive for me.

Thank you for allowing me to walk where you have been before, cutting the thicket of adventure or fun or fear. Thank you for giving me something new that I can take out with me, and remember when the whim takes me. I can return and remember, but I can never again begin.

Now, book, I must put you down for a time. If I return it will not be to a world  unknown; to secrets to be discovered, for you will never be new again. Return will be because a little of me is still between your pages, and always will be.