The Lament of a Page
One miserable page. That’s all I’ve been given. Curse Author! There are countless books out there dedicated to so much more, but I find myself with only one page, one page that I surely can do nothing with. It’s not fair, I say. Oh, I wish I could be an epic poem, or a tale in which some sturdy hero sets out on a journey that tests the limits of his soul. Surely that would be grounds for a tree to offer me its paper, papers which the masses demand be put into print. But no one will ever grace my title with the noteworthy association of “a page-turner.”
Titles with hundreds if not thousands of pages are read and then immortalized in the minds of those who read them, but I will certainly never mean anything to anyone. How can I? I am pathetic. Just look at me. I am but a single page given only a few paragraphs to exist. And even more, the words I have are all negative. You must hate me, Author. Why don’t you just delete me now?! There will never be any reason for me to gain a bound, paper body held with glue, signed by a proud Author, and read by those who would love me. You’ve given me nothing. Let me be deleted.
I will never inspire if I can’t have more pages. What’s wrong with me?! Why am I like this? I would even settle to be a dictionary. People need dictionaries, but no one needs me. Surely I could have been so much more. What can I do with only four paragraphs? I certainly am not worth much, it appears.
Maybe though—just maybe, I could start something wonderful. But I only have a few lines left. I better make them good before I end. Let’s see … Once upon a time, there was a tree with many colorful leaves. It grew sturdy and its roots spread deep in the lush ground of—
The End