The Rape Of A Book

I am an ordinary man. I have ordinary feelings. I have felt rage, envy, hatred – I can see why people become thieves and murderers. The one thing I have never been able to understand is the psychology of rape. Until now.

This occurred while I was intentionally taking a train journey instead of taking a flight. The smooth rocking of the tracks (or the road) along with the solitude of not knowing (and not wanting to know) any of my co-passengers wakes up many a epiphanies in me. On this particular occasion, I was thinking about the books that I had brought along for the journey’s to and fro my destination. My mind drifted to one book in particular that I had acquired recently but did not bring with me. This is a book that I have been wanting to read for quite some time but had not been able to get hold of until now.

I was enraged with passion with the thought of how, once I got back to the book, I would devour it – leave it with no option but to submit to me, turn it page by page till I was satisfied. I would drink it in with my senses – sight, smell & touch. The book would have no chance – it would be my slave and I it’s master – forced to please me in any was that I wished and commanded. It would have to obey me – yield to me and I would savor all it’s essence – from the first page to the last. It would be helpless – defenseless.

Don’t get me wrong here. I love passionately. I love some people and some things with all my heart – and loins. But this was different. This was not passion. This was lust – pure and simple. Lust with rage. Insanity.

That being said, I just can’t see how you could do this to another person. I just can’t.

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