Glee is not mine. The summary quote is not mine, it belongs to Donald Barthelme. All that is mine are the thoughts put into words.
You know how when you first get a hardcover book how perfect it is?
The jacket is bright and shiny, the pages are a pure white, no creases, perfectly crisp. When you open that book for the first time, you are the first person to flip that page.
You are also the first person to tarnish its perfection.
The oils on your hands taint the pages, the once crisp edges of the pages become fuzzy and discolored. No matter how hard you fight it, the pages get dog eared… We kill our books. We have that innate ability to destroy perfect things.
A book that once held promise for adventure ends up unfit to read unless you are hiding in your home with all the windows shut. Everything pure is dirtied, soiled, ruined with time. Save for the dust jacket. It seems to be the one thing that people value.
Some use it to attempt to protect the book, and others take it off immediately and store it to the side so that there will always be at least one reminder of how perfect and promising the book once was. It doesn't matter.
Either way you one day become overwhelmed with immeasurable sadness when you realize that the bindings are loose, the pages are yellowed and tattered… Your heart breaks when you realize that it's time to move on. Even if you have the memories evoked by that perfect dust jacket, it still hurts.
It's a metaphor Brittany. But you already knew that. You were the best at metaphors and malapropisms, anything that let you show off how sneakily smart you were.
I think you delighted in the fact that no one really understood how intelligent you were or that at times you were actually insulting them.
I loved that about you.
I loved a lot of things about you.
You weren't my first love. Not many people know this, but books were the first love of my life.
Books are many people's love.
That's because to read, or to write for that matter, is to love.
Isn't it?
I really don't know. You probably have a better idea of this than I do. You've always had the best ideas about abstract things like love and such. While I sit, and write long winding metaphors about my life spent loving you, you are out living.
That's the biggest difference between us I guess.
I live to write.
You live to live.
I live through my writing.
You live through life.
You have become the great love story of my life. We've been through it all you and I. Now here we are.
I sit at my desk, in the coffee shop, on the subway, who knows where and I write about you and all the fantastic adventures you are having as the cat knocks tea all over my papers, the barista keeps serving the same burnt coffee , and the bag lady knocks my pen and makes it run off the page.
You simply live.
It takes so many words to describe me and so few to describe you. It seems odd doesn't it? That the day to day happenings of the most extraordinary girl on the planet can be summed up in three words? Whereas here I am, an undisputedly simple and ordinary person of no great merit or significance who takes up whole chunks of precious text.
It won't matter in the end. Because in the end it isn't about how many words people can use to describe you. It's about the number of thoughts and memories people have about you. Perhaps you have so few words to your name because you truly are indescribable. An abstract concept in yourself that no one can really seem to wrap their mind around.
It suits you. People will remember you and all the things you did, all the memories you shared. I will be remembered as the girl who used too many words.
I disagree. I feel there aren't enough words to describe you adequately .
Nobody could fully capture your spirit.
Your heart.
Your joy.
Your love.
But if you allow me, I will try.
Because a story like yours begs to be written.
A/N: Reviews and feedback are greatly appreciated. Bear in mind that this only the intro. There is much more to come. This story will alternate between first and third person with each chapter.