BOOK

There's a book I carry around with me a lot. I was told the other night that it is a book of magic spells. I had never thought of it as such before, but I suppose that it makes sense.

Many of the pages are bent and twisted, but none of them are ripped (yet). It's green, but the binding on the outside has started to fade to black in the places where the nicer parts of the cover have worn away.

My friends quote it more than Harry Potter or the latest movie. I'm pretty sure that some people I know have burned copies of it.

There are lots of things that I've added to it. Not words, mind you. If I added any words to it, it wouldn't be the same book. But there are many things in it now that were not there when I first received it. There are many scraps of paper sticking out at funny angles. Some of them torn from notebooks, some notes from lectures, one is florescent pink. There is blood in the book now. There is salt residue from my tears. There is highlighter on my favorite sections, and there is grease from my thumbs.

I hope that when I die, it is found close by my side. It's a magic book. The deep magic.