She who read

She was a child who gave tattered books a chance despite the broken spine and plot.
She gave the characters a chance to develop, to be heard, to be understood. Even though at the end, they failed her.

She learned the beauty of everything through pages in her little reading spot.
She read. She wondered.

She closed her book. Looked at the view framed by the windows. She heard the waves splashing. Saw the stars changing.

She is now a lady. Who heard the wailings of the world. Who experienced the rough roads. She had seen the darkness cast by the night but mostly by people. But she gave them a chance. Even though at the end, they failed her.

And she, despite of everything falling into chaos, breaking her heart. She chose to give it a chance. She replicated the beauty she’d seen in books. The images of what kindness may bring. She brought it into life.

And she learned that people are also characters inside a story within pages. Tattered. Broken. And Lost. Plot unresolved but she continued to read them and understand.

Even though they may fail her again. She gave them a chance to bring out their beauty. So when the night comes, they’ll mirror the stars. They’ll light their own pages and untangle the knot that causes their lack of light.

She’ll be happy as another one can read with her. See and understand the beauty and darkness of our little, yet big world.

By reading, one can change, and that’s the start for the rest world.

By arcticnym

to weave something out of my string of thoughts

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