The book of my life

The first few words scrawled by childish hands
There was more colour than words.
Magic, mystery, marvel, wonder.. weaved their way around the grubby scribbles

The book of my life

The first few words scrawled by childish hands
There was more colour than words.
Magic, mystery, marvel, wonder.. weaved their way around the grubby scribbles

The words became firmer, the colours less
As the years went by and simple marvel diminished

Soon words were more, with eloquence enhanced,
The mastery of diction set in
As sophistication swelled
And the pages gleamed like burnished lamps
Where the audience basked in their radiance

In ecstasy the words began to race….the pages of my book were filling faster, faster
My story was being told…the colours were vivid… my pen was bold. I felt unstoppable.

But I made mistakes…
The ink got splashed
Some stories got splotched
Some characters killed
Some pages torn

But the powerful beat of my life, my story,
It pushed on …
Pages had to be turned,
words had to be created,
the story had to be told and…
…the book kept getting filled

Sometimes I wonder if the chapters flowed ?
Did it all make sense ?
Were all characters fleshed out well?
Was there coherence in the flow of my story ?
Did the plot excite the audience ?
Did I create a masterpiece or is my story going to be a failure ?

I look back and see the childish scrawl made in pure glee and absolute abandonment of any plan,
I look ahead and see the empty pages still pristine, untouched
I look down at the ink blotches, my weary hands, my worn out pen

And it struck me
The book of my life
Did I write it?
Or does it write me?

And I shrug. Like Atlas.

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