Personification is giving human qualities, feelings, action, or characteristics to inanimate (non-living) objects.
But is an object really inanimate if the person who gave it to you imbued it with themselves?
I found this stupid book you sent. Held it in my hands, turned it over. It made a weight in my chest, heavier than the specific shape against my fingers.
This damn book. It was from your collection. I don’t know why you sent it to me. I guess once upon a time you thought I might enjoy it.
You didn’t write inside the cover, the way you wrote on stories you bought specifically for me. It’s intact, from the smooth cover in halloween hues of black and orange, to the perfect reduction mark squiggled along the bottom edge of the pages.
I never did read this book. It isn’t really for reading, is it? Blurbs. Rants. Someone’s idea of comedy. Now I see that you’ve adopted this style, and that’s just so typical; that you would emulate and elevate a technique that was never meant to be good in the first place.
The author is a popular personality, otherwise I’m sure this book would never have become the solid object in my hands. I don’t like the guy. I don’t like his take on things. I never did find him humorous. He’s awfully concerned with his own opinions on people, places and things.
In this he reminds me of you.
No, I don’t like this book. I don’t like how it revived you in the room. I thought briefly of how I’d put an end to this thing that has your personality orbing from its pages: Smug. Self-satisfied. Contained.
I didn’t throw it off a cliff into an ocean, or set its pages on fire.
I didn’t rip great wads out of its soulless body, though I woud have been justified.
For this book is you.
I put it back in the box. It isn’t hurting anyone, not really. And while I continue to disagree with its attitude, while I am disappointed at the carelessness with which it dismisses people, I’d look awfully funny engaging an inanimate object in debate.
I also suspect that, like you, it wouldn’t hear me.
So I put it back in the box intact; still retaining all that ability to resurrect spirits and inflict a brief shadow of sorrow.
Because in my book, even absent, treacherous love inspires a semblance of homage.