Little book

ByKevin Kuzma

Little book

I have in me a little angel, with a faint voice, who always speaks from his heart. But I also have in me a roaring devil who screams daily—and nightly—up through the trees and into the blue and black skies. I have in my possession a little book, heavy, but no bigger than my hand, that contains all life’s truths, and maybe some insights on the afterlife. I keep on my bedside table, or on the carpet next to bed, or sometimes in bed with me, under and pillow or on the blanket. I seldom read it, though. The answers are there but they are not the ones I’m looking for. They seem to easy and they ruin the surprise that comes from flailing about and gaining wisdom form my own mistakes. My angel inside cries out louder to roll over and open the book. It feels like it would take all my energy to move, to shift my weight, and put that little book on
my chest. The angel—he gets drowned out—when the demons are screaming, seeping into me with their temptations. I can’t pick up the book. Especially not then. Lying next to me, it sits, the faux letter cover mocks me. Why defile it by opening its pages? Why ruin the ending? Who wants to reveal their own plot? The angel inside me does, and one day, when I’m through making mistakes, he’ll win out. He’ll silence the demons. I’ll lie in bed turning the glowing pages, my face lit up, my soul saved—if it isn’t too late.

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