The paradox of an open book

I've taken my shelter in the books since I was young and dreamed of adventure. 

Wrote down my thoughts in the alpine abditory, so I could seal them in a far-off land. 

Yet, here's the thing about my story: you'll never see it all.

Yes, you may read the story, the writing in blood-red ink on the wall.

Or feel the quiet beat of my heart within a page. 

Maybe feel the war within, upon the thunderous rage. 

And once the story is over, you'll quietly think to yourself.

'interesting' without a glance and return me to the shelf. 

But I'll tell you when you meet me, if only for a minute or two,

You'll begin to see something different, only given unto you.

For the people, they say, she's an enigma, complicated as a tapestry spun,

but darling, no, I'm just a lot of simple people, all rolled into one.

Where was this within your story? They asked, reasoning that I was an open book.

Just becuase you read my story, I reply, does not mean you got the whole look.

They'll ask, where was this before? I hadn't seen the hidden signs.

I shake my head. Here's the thing, my story is in between the lines.

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