I understand it may seem strange to you how a bookmark like me can boast of so many experiences. In many ways, dear reader, I am like you. I am also a member of society and I perform services in exchange for the benefit of a decent existence. I mark pages, but I also lay claim to each marked page, and if I am lucky to have a slow reader, I travel slowly, like you in a train, over large expanses of land, compassing and encompassing previously-unexplored territories. Sometimes I have something akin to your travelling by plane, and I just wake up in a different story each time. Enough to say that my greatest challenge is that of putting the puzzle pieces together. A reader drops me at a certain page, leaves me there for a while and then brusquely relocates me thirty pages later. What am I to make of that passage? How do I keep the story and ideas alive and coherent in my head? Sometimes I make things up, filling in the gaps. One story begins on the beach only to advance to the mountains. Obviously, I have to weave something to make sense of it all. But only if the story is worth the effort. This I decide from the very beginning. I have very high standards, you know. I rarely allow myself the patience to wait for three or four re-locations before I decide whether I should give it a try. I expect my stories to differ significantly from the stories in the books I inhabit. Since I cannot read the whole story, I will never know this. I don’t mind. I’d rather accept this than strive to become a knowledgeable back dust-jacket or, what is far worse, a synopsis page. They think they know everything, but they are nothing but arrogant and self-righteous.
[to be continued]