[ RF ] You stumble upon an old , tattered book in a bookcase . Inside is a stamp that says it belongs to a high school . Create an imaginary past for the book .

Books can tell many stories. Not all of them true. Sometimes, the true stories are the hidden words in the page. The scribbles in the margins. 
 
 I found the book, tattered and dusty, and pulled it off the shelf. Nostalgia, I told myself. I had used the same book back in high school. Out of curiosity I opened it and leafed through, just to see what I could remember. Of course, the contents meant nothing to me now. 
 
 I was ready to snap the book shut, shove it back on its shelf to collect another year's dust before someone would touch it again, but the graffiti stopped me. 
 
 Everyone did it. If you did n't, you simply could n't call yourself a student. Scribbling on these boring works of education was a ritual. A rite of passage. I looked down at the goofy face, wondering, what had gone into the drawing. Were they bored? Were they daydreaming? Did it mean something? Or was it just graphite on paper? 
 
 Now I was paging through slowly, admiring these doodles. Some were intricate, created by the budding artists. Details and shadowing still clumsy, they jumped out from the page. Others were profane, someone protesting the system: the box that the teachers kept forcing them into. I wondered how many succeeded in escaping that box, and how many were consumed. 
 
 Finally the pages were at an end. I had reached the cover. I looked down at the scrawling inked lines. Name after name, year after year. Pink, Blue, Red, Purple, Black, Light Blue, the simple grey of a pencil. Sparkly, plain, scented, gel. Everyone had their own tool to commit the offense. Everyone had their signature. Everyone had left their mark. 
 
 I flip to the front cover to see only the same again, and a stamp proudly announcing the textbook's former home. 
 
 I let my hand fall as I put the book back on its shelf. As I wander further into the store I reflect on the writing. 
 
 We all wanted desperately to leave our mark on the book, as proof to others that we existed and we were connected. We were each different, and yet, uniquely the same in purpose. How ironic, that the book was now forgotten and dismissed as **just** a book.
