You cling to classic books like they're a lifeline.

Their crumpled pages and broken spine reflecting on you,

The way you walk,

And talk,

And be.

Like if someone, somewhere, were to pick up a pen and write out your life,

You'd be a hero,

Or a diaster.

Something big like your soul,

Something small like your will to live.

You try so hard to be,

To be smart lke Atticus Finch,

To be noble like Jean Valjean,

To be faithful like Santiago,

To be innocent like Lennie Small.

The weight of the world weighs down on your shoulders like the weight of your paperbacks weighs down on your second shelf.

Hemmingway, Kipling, and Poe cannot write your life into an epic, dear.

Only you can be,

Be the designer,

The creator,

The maker.

Take a typewriting and stroke the keys,

It's time to be your own man.