ever feel like seth, cain and abel’s brother, lost in the annals of history because you weren’t a murderer or a victim, just a poor soul cast from eden because of your parents and their inability to follow the one simple rule

or like the one conscientious objector that was ostracized for thinking maybe stealing the native people’s land was a poor decision, forced out of the village for wanting to maybe help save the tribe

just a footnote relegated away, erased by the victors that write the books future generations learn from, like one of those little details that was important at the time but not flashy enough to be remembered

like how france funded the american revolution, or how america encompasses all the americas not just the forty eight, how before entering world war two the good old usa was okay with nazis and japan trying to enslave all of china

all i wanted was to be a chapter in her journal, but i fear i don’t rate higher than a brief bibliography mention when together we could have rewritten the book, but my penmanship wasn’t able to make the page

destined to be an asterisk in the novel of her story, a tale of love conquering all where i was just foot soldier in the losing side, a casualty of causality, less poetic memory and more birthday card that contained no cash

perhaps her’s was not the book i was meant to have a starring role in, just one i spent too much time reading and imagining myself written into the scenes, tinted by the hand of a master artist and less the flawed piece of pulp fiction and hack writing i embody now

but i’m an avid reader and maybe one day i’ll find the right tome, figure out a way to scribble myself into the margins, help shape the narrative and add some much needed lust and adventure, there are billions of books out there, i’ll just work my way through the dewey decimal system one by one