Tuesday, February 28, 2012


In his hands, he holds a book. The book contains our lives.

If you open the book, if you flip through its pages, you will find those who are trapped in stories, bound by words. They struggle to break free from the archetypes around them and, in the process, they conform to what they always were. They are stewards and musicians, poets and policemen, those who are trapped and those who seek freedom, assassins and agents, those who forget and those who are forgotten, faceless bastards and free thinkers and those who don't give a fuck.

Their stories are numerous and their lives are reflections of our own. Or, perhaps, we are reflections of them. They have shown us stories of hope and despair, of life and death, of loneliness and love and longing.

If you open the book, perhaps you will see all these, perhaps you could run your finger across the words of their lives and perhaps somehow, in some way, you could communicate with them, commend them on their bravery in the face of adversity, in the face of fear.

Perhaps, however, you would not find those pages filled with words. Perhaps you would only find a blank page, a book of blank pages. Blank pages just waiting for you to fill them up.

In his hands, he holds a book. The book contains our lives.

1 comment:

  1. Your writing is so fluent. Reading your blog likes tasting sugar, it's so sweet.

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