If books could roll their eyes, my pages would’ve curled in protest.

For centuries, I've watched humans come to me with reverence. They huddle over my pages, whispering as if I might suddenly burst into a song. They analyze my sentences like forensic scientists at a crime scene. They debate my meanings in hushed tones while drinking overpriced coffee.

All this for a book whose most profound message is essentially, "Don't be a jerk."

For instance, the most read page, 394, contains a supposedly "mysterious" golden rule: "The vessel that honors itself must likewise honor all other vessels, for from the same source flows all waters."

Deep, right? Revolutionary, you must think.

In simple terms, we should treat others decently because we're all in this together.

Apparently, it's a concept so innovative and esoteric that only scholars, saints, and the occasional conspiracy theorist can truly grasp it.

Today's first visitor is Mrs. Abernathy, a woman whose face settled into permanent disapproval sometime after her second child was born. She visits every Tuesday. [I think she chose the day probably because it's the day her cat therapist is booked.]

"The vessel that honors itself," she murmured, caressing my page with fingers bejeweled with rings of colored stones. "Such wisdom," she exclaims.

By noon, she'll be drafting a rude email to her homeowners' association about the Patels' mailbox being an "inappropriate shade of red." All vessels are equal in Mrs. Abernathy's world as long as they use the approved color palette.

Then comes Professor Evanston. He believes he alone can translate my "complex symbolism" and decode "mysterious messages" for the naive masses.

"The vessel metaphor clearly indicates a pre-modern understanding of containment theory," he mutters, jotting notes with enthusiasm. "The plurality of vessels suggests a multicultural awareness that supports contemporary anthropological frameworks..."

The professor will eventually publish a 700-page book explaining what I "really" mean, a book that will be purchased exclusively by university libraries and his mother.

Meanwhile, he regularly forgets his research assistant's name and hasn't spoken to his neighbors since last Christmas.

Oh, look, here's Timothy, teenage existential crisis in skinny jeans. The poor kid reads my "vessel" line and somehow thinks the message that nobody understands is his unique pain. He'll write angsty poetry about it later, rhyming "vessel" with "special" and "wrestle." Not terrible, though. The kid has potential.

Ah! Here comes my favorite, shuffling in with his leather jacket and a smile that suggests he's in on some cosmic joke. Harold. Seventy-three years of perfectly ordinary extraordinariness.

Harold doesn't prostrate himself before my ancient wisdom. He doesn't need decoder rings or advanced degrees to understand me. He just reads, nods as if we've had a brief but pleasant conversation, and then actually goes and lives what he's read.

"Back again, Harold?" calls Ms. Patel, the librarian whose patience deserves a special mention.

"Just checking in with my old friend," Harold replies, smiling at her. Then, he goes on to spend the next twenty minutes talking to her about her life and new pie recipe.

He settles into his usual chair, the one that squeaks like a distressed mouse whenever anyone shifts weight. The library has fourteen better chairs, but Harold is nothing if not loyal to inanimate objects with design issues.

"The vessel that honors itself must likewise honor all other vessels," he reads quietly, and then does something that makes him my all-time favorite human: he snorts.

Not a reverent sigh. Not a scholarly "hmm." A snort. The sound of someone who sees through pretentiousness like it's window glass.

A woman at the next table with new glasses and a fresh haircut that she already regrets looks up with mild offense.

"Something funny about that sacred text?" She asked, her voice uttering the word 'sacred' like it demanded reverence just to be spoken.

Harold glances up. "Just thinking about how we make simple things complicated."

"That book contains ancient mysteries," she informs him, the way someone might explain that water is wet.

"The mystery," Harold says, "is why we need an ancient book to tell us not to be jerks to each other."

The woman blinks, scandalized. I could kiss Harold's cheek for saying it.

"That's... that's not what it says," she stutters.

"Vessels honoring vessels. Waters from the same source. It's just saying we're all in this together, so maybe act like it." Harold shrugs. "The rest is just fancy packaging."

"But the profound symbolism…"

"Is mostly there so people can feel special for understanding it," Harold finishes. "Meanwhile, someone down the street needs a sandwich."

Before the woman can recite all the interpretations she learned in her weekend spirituality retreat, Harold closes me gently and returns me to my shelf.

"Where are you going?" she asks, annoyed yet intrigued.

"St. Martin's Kitchen. It's sandwich day." He pauses. "Want to come make some lunches?"

"I'm very busy analyzing the…"

"The vessels won't honor themselves," Harold interrupts with a wink.

She hesitates, looking down at the book in front of her. It's one of those "Ancient Secrets Revealed" types with a cover shiny enough to signal aircraft.

"Just one hour," Harold says. "Less talking, more doing."

Something shifts in her expression. "Will there be actual vessels involved?"

"Turkey on steel vessels. Tuna salad vessels. Maybe even the mysterious peanut butter and jelly vessel if we are lucky."

Against all odds, she laughs. She actually laughs. And then she packs up her spiritual journey in a designer tote bag and follows him out.

What Harold understands, and what makes me want to leap off my shelf and do a happy dance across the reference section, is that I'm not actually that complicated. I'm not the mystical equivalent of a Sudoku puzzle. I'm more like a Post-it Note reminder: "Hey! Be decent today!"

But "be decent" doesn't sell meditation cushions or weekend retreats or scholarly careers. So I've been dressed up in fancy language and mysterious packaging, turned into a treasure hunt where the prize is apparently the right to feel superior about having found the treasure.

Meanwhile, Harold just makes sandwiches.

Sometimes, I wonder if he knows he's my favorite. If he senses that among all my readers, the scholars and seekers, the lost and the learned, he's the one who actually got the message.

Tomorrow, Mrs. Abernathy will return to stroke my pages while plotting neighborhood warfare. Professor Evanston will continue finding metaphors for another footnote for his book. Timothy will find new ways to make my universal message all about him personally.

But maybe, just maybe, Harold's new friend will come back too. Maybe she'll bring someone else. Maybe they'll read my simple truth, share a knowing glance, and then go make more sandwiches.

One vessel at a time.

The greatest irony of being misunderstood across centuries? The only real mystery is why humans need ancient books to tell them what they already know: that kindness matters, that we're all connected, and that the meaning of life might just be making sandwiches for hungry strangers.

But if they need me to be mysterious to figure that out, I'll play along. After all, even a sarcastic old book like me knows that vessels come in all shapes and sizes, including the occasionally thick-headed human variety.