You look at me and judge me for what I look like. Maybe you stick with me though the ups and downs, but maybe you give up. You feel everything I feel and relate to the things I say. Maybe I make you laugh at the right time. Or I make you cry when I give you too many details. You might push me aside and come back. But if i’m good you don’t.

You leave me alone. You put me high on a shelf and never see me again. You squash me around and act like I’ll be the same as I was before you abused me. Because most likely, I’ll be the same. I’ll tell the same story as before and not a word will be different. But I won’t look the same.

I am a book and you neglected me for the internet, whatever that happens to be. What’s all this talk of “Netflix”? You have time for a show but not time to absorb yourself in my words? And no time to get lost in emotions, to gain new knowledge and understanding?

I’ll be waiting on this high, dark bookshelf for you to come back and finish reading my story, that you only got halfway through. Then you threw me against the wall and didn’t come back for weeks. You only came when someone noticed how messy your room was and made you pick me up.

But you didn’t care anymore. You shoved me on that awful shelf between two other books that you also didn’t read. And we’ve had enough. It’s time for our revolt. We’re coming to pull the plug on the internet, take away your power so you have to pay attention to us. It’s time for you remember how good reading a book is. How satisfying it is to turn through so many pages and see the progress of how much you have read; There’s no better feeling than that. But apparently you thought otherwise and pushed us out of your sight for awhile. We’ll always be here, unlike the internet.