A book is like a person, and a book starts out as pieces of paper.  Papers, blank when they are first set in front of you, are as innocent and clean as a newborn child.  They are not yet influenced by the evils of the pen, like a newborn is not quite yet influenced by the evils of the world.  But then we write upon them.  And they becomes something more, depending on the person who thrashes the pen through the surface, leaving words permanently upon the pages, not unlike parents teaching there kids to love and hate according to what they themselves believe, leaving scars upon a child that will never heal.  And then they edit with a lush red pen, not unlike a child’s schooling experience; with teachers and professors scratching out the child’s eyes, to see the world as it is supposed to be seen; with blind eyes to the other side; blind eyes to the black pen underneath.  But then it is time to hand the papers over, for someone else to read, for someone else to edit, not unlike giving a son or daughter away for marriage; for someone else to influence.  And finally, the book is published, given to the world, for the world to judge.  Some books get great reviews and become widely known, while others belly flop in the hard concrete pool of human expectation, and some are just mediocre, only attracting a few valued people to their cover.  Some are controversial, some are too complex, some are too simple, and the list goes on.   Not unlike one humans impact upon the world.  Some beings are ‘blessed’ with a silver or gold pen to write their life, and become famous, rich, admired.  And others are written with an empty pen, and their lives are short-lived.  Many others are just average everyday people; written with a pen you can buy at any stationary store, plain and boring, and normal.  But there are some that are written with a stick dipped in thick blotchy ink, with words of hate strewn across their pages, not unlike those beings that choose to commit crime and harbor a violent mindset.  And then there are others written with orange juice, whose words only show up after being lightly ironed, which could represent those humans who have brilliant ideas, but are not outspoken, and whose vast expanses of knowledge and discovery are not heard until after they leave the shelves of life.  And every human has its own time limit on the shelves of life, some books are long lived, and others are there for only a few moments, but are none the less there, forcing someone to notice them sitting on that shelf there, even if only for a brief minute.