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Sunday, 18 October 2009

A Book made of Buttons

Hello, Other Blog. How are you feeling now that you exist? It's strange to think that, earlier on today, you hadn't even been thought of, let alone written in and planned. So quickly life is created, though, you're not strictly alive are you? No. You're only alive when I write in you. It must be a sad existence, even if it is new. It must already be sad, living only when someone else wants you to. But we mustn't dwell on sad things.

If you were a book, I'd imagine you to be completely covered in buttons, sewn onto your cover precisely and delicately. You'd be purple, of course, and though you wouldn't see it for the buttons, you'd be made of a nice material, something soft and smooth to the touch. Your pages would have that antique feel, smell. That crusty too-old but still living sense that old books have. You'd be a paradox in yourself, a new-old book and I'd write in you with a feather quill and purple ink. You'd seem like some sort of magic, to me anyway with my imagination tying itself in knots just to understand you. But I wouldn't. You're too complex. But you're loyal, I could see that from the moment you were made - if I were to write my secrets in you they would simply dissolve into nothing and reappear again if I wanted to see them.

It's nice, isn't it? Imagining what you could be like, if you were not caught in the web of the cyberspider, which we all bow down to daily. One day, I will make you, for real and I will write a new entry, just like this one just for you. No one else, it will be our little secret.

Hello, Other Blog. How are you feeling now that you exist?

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