The anthropomorphic bookI wish I could scream and flap my pages, urging them to give me a chance. Instead, I am stuck on my shelf, waiting and watching as more people pass me by.
Every morning, as the quaint library opens, I see people walking in, looking for the human book. Kids are running around, and adults, who appear tired, are seeking a small escape from reality. I know that what’s inside me could make so many people happy, but most pass me by without a glance. I wish I could scream and flap my pages, urging them to give me a chance. Instead, I am stuck on my shelf, waiting and watching as more people pass me by, oblivious to the fact that my pages might provide them with what they are looking for.
Sometimes, I am picked up, and the air tickles my spine. I feel a rush of excitement, thinking I will finally be opened and read. Instead, I am spun around so fast that, if I had a head, I would be dizzy. They skim over what is written on my black cover, a bare surface preview that can never honestly portray what’s happening inside me. Then, I am placed back on my shelf, as nobody seems interested in discovering what lies within me.
However, one day, after yet another pair of hands roughly grabbed and turned me over, I heard words I had never heard before. “This one sounds cool,” they said. Cool? Me? Before I knew it, I saw different parts of the library for the first time, being brought to the front desk and then taken outside. The sun was so bright, and I couldn't wait to spend a week with someone who wanted to get to know me. I was eager to show how much I had to offer, hoping that more people would choose me and that I would become so popular there would be a waiting list for me.
Suddenly, darkness enveloped me as I was shoved into a bag, where I could only eagerly await the moment my new friend would take me out and get to know me. In the meantime, I could still hear her and learn about someone beyond the brief moments they passed through my section. She was talking on the phone, and I wondered if she would mention finding me and wanting to spend the entire week going through my pages. Instead, the conversation revolved around her.
She seemed to crave the same things that I did—for someone to come and take her off a shelf and out to see the world. Why would she need that if she had just gotten me? I could be her friend and spend the night with her if she only took me out of this dark bag and opened to chapter one. Instead, I heard the TV turn on and soon realised I wouldn’t leave the bag tonight. I could only wait for my new friend to see the real me, just like I was seeing her.
I stayed in the bag all weekend, and she took me to work on Monday. She could read me on her lunch break or show me to her co-workers. I would love to be passed around and have someone look past my hardcover for once.
She was speaking to a man, asking if she could do a presentation for the company. He ignored her and said she seemed bright, but he didn’t think it suited her. He didn't even engage further to find out why she wanted to do it or what it was about. At her desk, I heard her complaining about how she would never progress if she didn’t get a chance to show what she was capable of. What was inside her wanted to be shown, but her boss wouldn't look past the surface level.
I finally realised she was just like me, wanting the same things. She wanted someone to give her a chance based on what was written on her metaphorical back cover. To say she has something good inside and choose her over the millions of others waiting on the shelf. If she looked inside me, she could understand how to fix everything, and neither of us would have to feel inadequate or lonely again. She was in a dark bag, just like me, waiting for someone to reach in and pull her out into the light.
I stayed in that bag for the entire week, and by the time she remembered I was in there, I had to be returned to my home. I was never opened or touched by the person I thought wanted to get to know me. When the librarian asked if she enjoyed reading me for the week, she lied and said I was a good read. I was placed back on the shelf among the other books once again, where their flashy covers would attract attention instead of mine, and they would be taken out time and time again, opened and given a chance, unlike me.
One day, another person might pick me up and think I am good enough to take home. I feel bad for that person because if she had just looked past the front cover, I would have had the answers she sought. After all, I am a book about how to make people notice you.