Tuesday, February 16, 2010

The Book of Hours

My life is like a book. Sometimes an open book, left out in the sun, pages wide open with coffee cups stains for all the world to grab a glipse of. Or its a closed one, never experiencing the touch of a hand through its crisp pages. A book has to have a beginning, middle and an end right? As mine seems to be stuck in the middle...the author seeming to be having writers block. It's like, when you skim through a book, you see a whirlwind of small texts flipping before your eyes. Mine, the black and white blur stops in the middle. And your left with white, virgin pages. Not touched, but not forgotten. Just, stuck.
My book is not tattered nor torn. It's not made of old leather with a red silk bookmark to remind you of your place. But instead, its still in rough draft. Scattered on the floor, like when life feels like nothing has to be in this picturesque state and fashion. Everything is more abstract and freehanded, reminding you of spur of the moment actions and feelings that arent controlled, more felt.
Or this rough draft will be neatly thumbtacked on the wall in an orderly fashion. Everything in place, from when you first felt that tinge of attraction to the oppisite sex at the age of 5, or when you finally realised how much the oppisite sex are such jackass's. You notice once again that your whole wall is claustrophobic with pages, yet still its not fully covered. Not yet to its full capacity. You know it can handle more than that. It just takes time, hours, days, months, years...
I guess I am getting ahead of myself. Expecting life to come at me like a wave. But, the tide is low, and the moon is asleep behind the sun.
This writers block will be fixed soon enough, and those pages will be filled, and this book will be published. Will it be edited? No...because life cant be taken back. Whats done is done. It's written in the stars is what they say. Something so out of our reach, we just have to lie back and connect the dots of our constellations.


Once my story has been told, to the point where my pages have been tattered and torn, please dont push it to the very back of your shelf. It wasnt made to collect dust. My life, my book wasnt lived and written to be forgotten. It was made my Him with a sense and a purpose. Everything has a purpose in this road we call life. So I guess I should take this road slow. Pull the windows down and feel the cool breeze whip through my hair. Cruising down with an open mind, heart and soul.


As for now, its not Once upon a time, its not To be continued, its not The End, but just Dot Dot Dot...

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