The book of me..

I was thinking about it and if I were a book what kind of a book would I be? Here’s the best I could come up with.

I would have a pretty cover. But it wouldn’t be conventionally pretty or glamorously pretty or even the kind of book you spot from across the room and beg your parents to spend exorbitant amounts of money on.

It would be a simple but elegant cover, maybe a bright beautiful flower against a stark white background. Or maybe a girl with breathtaking eyes curled up in a corner looking out her window.

It would be the kind of cover where you would spot it on the shelf and have to look twice because one glance doesn’t do it. It would be mysterious and make you wonder what was inside the book. But it wouldn’t give that much away at first.

And inside. Inside of the book of Helene the beginning would probably consist of a bunch of imitations of other books I’ve seen because I’m not quite comfortable with my own story. But once you got through all of that, you would see the real me.

The real, complicated but sometimes painfully simple, poetic, insightful, me. Full of dreams and faith and love.

It would be a long read, no doubt, only for those ready to take on such a task. It would be unlike any other book out there.

It would be precise, random, heartfelt, angry, ecstatic, forlorn, simple, intelligent, straightforward, complex, boring, exciting, and everything in between. But most of all it would be real and it would be everything I’ve ever felt.

You would see vivid descriptions of things that others may over look. You would see big beautiful words strung together so perfectly that it could sound like a song if you read aloud.

And maybe sometimes the words would be broken or grammatically incorrect or just so fragmented from pain and insecurity and heartache. Those chapters would be dark, sulky, and melancholy.

And at times it would be angry. So angry that the words don’t make much sense at all. Just a lot of ranting and raving at anything because the world is so messed up.

And then sometimes it would be like a children’s book with gorgeous pictures and silliness and wimsy and melodic rhyme and lots and lots of laughter.

Sometimes it would be pleading for anyone to make me feel less alone and isolated from everyone. There would be a lot of yearning in these chapters. A lot of unhappiness too.

And sometimes it would be a fairytale romance where the words would burn so hot it would feel like the page would catch flame and burn the whole book until it were nothing more than ashes.

And sometimes it would be so idyllic and crazy that the chapter would have to just be a dream. With people who can fly, where fear doesn’t exist, and most of all where anything can happen.

And then of course it wouldn’t be a good book without a Happily Ever After and a twist ending.

It would be me,

Just me.

Jeg kom bare på dette fordi jeg tenkte på det,

og nå utfordrer jeg dere som leser dette til å gjøre det samme.

Lykke til.

Peace Out,

Helene.

Edit: Når jeg sier "gjøre det samme" så mener jeg at dere skal liksom skrive hvordan dere ville vært hvis dere var en bok, litt rart, I know.