I am the page that you read, or possibly the lines formed by ink — I have not quite figured that out yet. I exist in a plane of constant action that is only in motion once glared at. I am the old book on the shelf, covered in cobwebs and dust due to the innate refusal to read. It is quite ironic in a way, that you preoccupied your mind with action all the time. Perhaps if I were a picture book you would take me more seriously.
Instagram, Facebook even? I am neither, as I am not filled with unattainable lives nor constant threats of destruction to the way you live, rather I am a look into what is possible. The possibilities I present are both to be strived for and avoided because, while a utopia sounds magnificent, a dystopia is just as bleak.
Look, I am simply a set of ideas and livable moments pasted onto pages upon pages, that are meant to be enjoyed — or at least glossed over — so that your mind can find creativity and new perspectives. I am an old book. Captured in my pages is a story, a story you will most likely neither see nor ever tell.
I am the past, yet I seem so much like the future. Predicting things seems to be my job, but I am simply retelling lost tales or, better yet, just reverberating thoughts of what the future might hold. Some of the predictions held within me could have already come to pass, or have served as greatly as a warning, so the idea never has to become a reality.
Read, become fascinated by the dust worn pages of past minds, if only to disagree with the thoughts that once bled onto a page, so very long ago. Or, perhaps, find yourself captured, embodied, or living within the pages you skim through… Just make sure you first brush off those cobwebs strewn across your mind.