Pages

Pages of a story

Is what I am.

I am the crisp sound of paper sliding from one page to another.

I am the smell of the book as it slowly ages

And smells like vanilla.

26 letters unafraid,

Used to create words of truth.

Words.

I am the blatant and honest letters represented by

A modern shape and yet, still, truly timeless.

I live in the present but my place has always been the past.

The age of video attacking my existence

With instant gratification, violence, and social media.

I combat this,

Sassy remarks fill my pages,

Sarcastic references,

Shakespearean insults, and

Puns all work

As a blow to the current generation.

Once beaten by unkindness,

I refuse to back down.

My words filling the pages

And yet, a pang of pity

Because hatred will never reside in this book

Real emotions flood my pages as technology fights back.

How do they miss it?

How do they miss the true feelings of being with people and making friends?

They're simply too busy looking at what is bright and shiny,

Missing the truth,

Missing what's right in front of them,

Missing me.

The original,

The quirks of me,

The sass and the sarcasm

Of the retorts of Jane Austen's

Elizabeth Bennett,

To the kindness of Victo Hugo's

Cossette.

They miss it all,

 Untill somebody

Picks me up

And begins to read

My pages.