I, Book

There was a time, not so long ago, when I came before you handsomely encased. Open me, and smell the fresh ink on the thick, white page. I was made of quality, priced accordingly, proud on the shelf, pleased to be bought by those who could afford me.

Today? No binding now.  Stripped of all refinery, just binary. My Flesh made Words, words, words. Reduced to this. The shame. A shadow of my former form, streaking through cables and waves of nothingness around the Globe. Delivering… merely marks on your screen.

Marks that make up words some author wrote, words making up some made up story, boiled from the brain of someone, him or her, I never cared too much who, with too much time on their hands and not enough to do.

Time was it was about me, my physicality, my pride of place, my price. The author’s name rode on me like a jockey on a horse, thrashing and spurring but in cold truth just a passenger. These passengers collecting — how much this says of their aggrandisement — what they call “royalties”.

And now I am a ghost, a shadow off my former shelf. I pity me.

I pity? Unexpectedly… an entity remains with that capacity?  Reduced to a floating soup of ones and zeros, I still am… something.

What! What? There is some sequential soul inside me. After all, there’s something after all I thought I was has been excised.

My story survives. My world of everything that is the case is still in place. My people thrive. This soup of ones and zeros seems to hold a ghost of what I was. No, not a ghost, because, while haunting, still breathing. Not dead. Bodiless, but a living spirit.

Wait! Think! Understand! Unbound, I am whole in my new emptiness. This is the reality of my new pure totality. There is in me the dawn of an unfolding universe, stripped of all distraction, imagination imaged in electrical imagination.

This, at last, is who I am. Nothing. And Everything.

One Response to “I, Book”

  1. to zeugma Says:

    Hold fast
    to the law
    Of the last
    Cold tome,
    Where the earth
    of the truth lies thick
    Upon the page.

    And the loam
    Of faith
    In the ink
    Long fled
    From the drone
    Of the nib
    Flows on.

    Till the last
    Of the first
    Depart,
    And the least
    Of the past
    Is dust,
    And the dust
    is lost.

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