I thought I was transparent
Lit from within
By every desire and
Incredible whim.

I thought I was opaque
Heavy and full to the brim
With bleak thoughts and
Grim fears.

It seems I am both.
I am the proverbial open book
To someone who knows
Exactly where to look.

I am a confusing and frustrating
Bundle of contradictions
For anyone who wants me to be
Consistent in all conditions.

I can be read, book, chapter and verse
But they’re not in any semblance
Of reasonable order, and worse,
The table of contents is entirely unreliable.

Oh dear.
I must not be like a book at all.

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