Walking home from work, I often pass a large bookstore with hundreds of books out front for $1, 3, 5 bucks.

How is it that books are this ancient thing that take years of labor, and then they just go and sit on a shelf on the sidewalk in the middle of the city, lost amongst thousands of other pages?

I think that’s the point. There can be as many books as there are human beings in this world, because we all have a story to tell.

The beauty of the book is how it sits on the shelf like a drop in the sea.

Yet that drop matters, ‘cause that drop is you and me.

That’s what makes the sea glisten. The book. A glimmer on the crest of a wave as the sun’s going down, and all you see is white light.

It’s a piece of the whole. So It doesn’t matter who picks the book up, if anyone at all. What makes it beautiful is the fact that you made it.

You spent years, months, days, hours, thinking, conjuring, playing with creativity, how to take what’s in your mind and put it on display for the world to judge, the world to see, the world to be affected by.

I see you in the pages.

I see your soul glisten.

I see my own reflection.

A drop in the sea.