Guy Montag didn’t know that.
Didn’t know that thousands would read.
Read about him.
He just ran.
Ran away from a world so critical
If only he’d known sooner
If only he’d gotten his wife out of there
If only his wife had gotten the treatment she neede
This was the only way he knew
The only way he could live
The only way he could survive
What if he was as oblivious as his nation?
What if he wasn’t curious?
What if he hadn’t spotted Clarisse?
Would he have fallen victim to that unisolated bomb?
Would his own colleague have died with him?
No push from Montag
All alone, would he have been a victim too?
Was it really “a pleasure to burn”?
To burn something you’d go crazy over.
You’d mentally destroy yourself over.
Almost die over.
Did this job ever give you satisfaction?
Did you ever feel satisfied?
Did you think about feeling satisfied?
Did you doubt?
Did you think of the future?
How about your wife?
Your once favorite number.
The number that defined your existence.
That defined your future.
A number you’d never forget.
A number you’d want to forget.
A number that literally burned.
Bye, to your home.
To your wife.
To your friends.
They weren’t real anyways
Oh, how you can get attached.
A book that engraves itself in your brain.
Burns a spot in your neo-campus.
But in the end, he was fictional.
Montag, isn’t real.
He’ll never know how his readers and I felt about this book.
Ray Bradbury’s book will be in my heart forever.
And this quick, well written story might be helpful in the future.
“It was a pleasure to burn”, Montag.