A book I once held sobbed, its tears falling over my fingertips.
A tremendous sorrow that it was unable to bear left its pages soggy, resembling a ship of sailors.
The ink on the page began to stream like rain as the words inside had come to life.
It had thrived because of the stories that were told, but now it cried out in pain.
I questioned why the book was crying.
The pages then shifted to stories of loss and sad farewells.
Hearts still burned for unrequited love.
The book had lived a thousand lives and experienced every one of them with agony. It cried for everyone it had survived and for those it was unable to comfort.
Because even books must experience their fair share of grief in the lonely night, I wiped away its tears as I held it gently still and squeezed it tightly.
Then I lowered my voice and said to the book, “Hope, love, and all that is brilliant.” I added that even though the book was dripping with tears, the pages still gleamed in the light.
Books may cry, as can we all, but through their sorrow, we discover the truth: that although life is difficult, it is true that joy can arise from the depths of childhood.