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Finding myself easily read, well then, I say, read me. Read me. Am I not naught but text? Am I nothing but lines on a page? 

That's all I am to you, isn't it? Lines on a page. Ink on paper. Text before your eyes that you can close, and open, and peruse at your leisure. Isn't that all I am to you? Just something to be read. How easy I am. How straightforward I am, you're thinking. How predictable, you know exactly what will heppen next, you turn the page and there I go again, doing exactly as you say!

And yet...

You turn back. NO, that can't be it. Surely it didn't happen like that. You must have read me wrong. NO, the story can't have happened like -- but that changes everything

And you turn back further, and there's more. Here on page three, I didn't bring the papers back in like you thought. You flip forward. On page 56, I did kill the dog. On page 67, I never made it clear what was going on. Look, there in the middle of the page is that one word -- "thought" -- that changes the whole mood of the scene. On page 89, a page you skipped over, thinking you knew what would happen, the battle turns in someone else's favor, and where you think we were celebrating victory on page 93 we were actually toasting defeat.

I am easily read. Read me again, and again, and each time there is something different about me, something new, something bolder here, something dimmer there. Read me again. I am so much like your own memory. For each time you read your own memories, they change as well. They shift around, change subtle details, in order to fit the narrative you set out for them. In time, you will become like me, a story for all to read.

Finding myself easily read, I await your own translation.

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