Reading me

This book is nothing more than an old paperback. I don't remember where i got it. But the pages are yellow and worn from reading. The cover is creased and the spine broken. The ink, once crisp, has spread and become indistinct. The words however, remain sharp - cutting me to my core.
     I am here in these pages, lost. Waiting for you to read me alive again, to breathe life and feeling into this body of vanishing text. My skin is paper and these words are written in indelible ink upon me. The printing of which left faint scars, if you read closely you can see them.  What i have discovered between these pages -  between each beat of my heart- is that I am trapped, trapped here in sentiment that holds nothing new. Everything has already been said, written, and done before, it may be new to us, but that does not make it new.
    So how do we continue? If we skip to the last page what happens? Will we learn the lesson inscribed and not make the same mistakes that are printed like a warning in these yellowed sheets? Or do we read each page in order and fool ourselves into thinking we are at the edge of a new discovery? Or is it enough to let the story unfold beneath our fingers and say this is new to me.