What if?

Photo by Sinziana Susa on Unsplash

What if I were a book that writes itself?

Who would celebrate me when I am done writing?

Who would even know?

What kind of typeface would I use?

What would it be about?

What kind of people would live in my pages, through my words?

Or through their words, that I decide upon.

What would they say and how?

Would they be angry, sad, happy, or in love?

For sure, my words would be flowing smoothly, by themselves,

and the pages would fill—

one by one, day by day, chapter by chapter.

100 pages, 200 pages…

I might even edit myself.

Decide on my own what stays and what gets cut.

Or, perhaps, that wouldn’t be necessary—

I’d write the perfect version of myself.

I would include some pictures–

I might make them up.

So many decisions I’d have to make–

Is that what humans do? Decision, after decision, after decision…

Yet, this writer thinks I could do that—write myself out.

Show up, page by page.

Otherwise, she wouldn’t have left me here, in this data dusted corner of her laptop.

Will she be able to find me the day she decides to look for me?

And what would make her return to me?
Perhaps I should plot with the laptop,

Knock on her screen, have my name

Show up across the white page,

Convince her of the worth

of her story…