Our lives have become like libraries. They’re like books with broken spines or slight damage, and very few readers give the book a chance. It’s like we’re broken from the inside out, trying to fix ourselves or pretend we’re okay.
Sometimes we go through life feeling like an untouched book on the shelf, just waiting for the right person to see our flaws yet accept us for who we are. We cross paths with some who just go through the pages quickly and put the book down, and others who judge by the cover – once again, we are put back on the shelf.
We stay there until that one person picks up the book and smells it. They don’t fold the book as this might damage the spine; they turn the pages carefully. Their fingers move slowly while their eyes capture the moment. They decide to take the book with them and leave.
How often does this happen in our lives?