I've often wondered if it would hurt my heart less to know what the end of my story holds before I get there

If it was as easy as picking up a novel with the prettiest cover and the catchiest title in the darkest corner of my local used bookstore, and flipping its crisp, worn pages to the last one

Reading the last lines
Memorizing the way each letter forms the last words

The smell of old musky wood and coffee ring through me at the thought

Would they be poetic

Would they capture the hearts of audiences far and wide

Or would my story only resonate with the few souls who have ever understood me

Would it be thought of as slow, mundane
Or would my insanities reflect throughout its pages

The protagonist of my own story
Or perhaps, the villian


Would it be a thrilling read
A love story, maybe

Or one full of loneliness and heartache


Notably, I am left wondering if the pages between the bind will be plentiful

With stained markings where tears dropped on its worn pages

A curve in its spine

And bent corners marking the places each person who studied them stopped along the way


Will I be satisfied with the way my story unfolds as time continuously trudges on

The softest part of me hopes so
The critic in me
Fears not

© krystlereisler