Chapter I: I am

I am an open book. Hidden on the back of the shelves, waiting for someone to have the will to read me. I snick around the other books, hide behind them, and often doing that I push them forward and make them be more visible. I'm the force on the back, the impulse that is not notice.

I wonder if I really don't want to be seen, or I'm just to scare of showing myself. Meantime I'm just there behind thousand of books, reading them from time to time. I have to admit I learn a lot of interesting things not just by reading but also watching from the small hole in the corner, how some book are read with passion and other with disgusts.

I don't know what is my content, is quite hard to read myself, not just for the uncomfortable position I need to engaged but also for the fear of what I might have to read. Some people had read me, and said I am a novel, full of stories and some sorrows. I try to believe them, even if is hard to think that a novel would look like me.

I've seen books that are novels, they are thicker, with strong covers and with fancy letter. How could I be a novel? if does famous ones doesn't look like me. Maybe does who read me, doesn't know anything about book. Or maybe there are more types of novel in this world.