Chapter XVII

Chapter XVII

I have this story in my head, One thats constantly being rewritten and played out. It's a good story, its tortured and tattered, with yellow-aged pages and the bind is slowly breaking. But it's the book I can't seem to stray from for too long. It's a classic, like old vinyls on a dusty record spin. It's impacting if you read it with a soundtrack, it will live on, change frequently. So in between the bindings of my storybook, there is no title, and no defined ending. It feels like I have read only the beginning, but I know I could have just written the end. So as I sit and think on the days to come and the days of the past I more frequently realize that the best part and the most important part of the book is the very page that I'm on, the very words just starting to take shape. Not the name scrolled on aging pages, or faces soon described in full.. The history has been carved in stone, and the coming days are undecided. But with each breath of now I write another word; is it a noun, a pronoun an adjective, or a verb? Am I going, staying, lost, or found? What do I feel, what do I desire, what do I want in these seconds? What crawls on my flesh and whispers in my ear, what lies on my tongue, and what keeps my feet stable, what fills my hands and winds trough my fingers? Am i talking, laughing, crying? Or am i alone in silence? What jumbles in my brain, and who calls out my name? Hows the weather, and what is my location? The aroma of my days are sponged onto each page with such delicacy, written with the pen of a master author, and the story line of an all knowing creator. So as each word carries on, I read in suspense, my happily ever today.

-end chapter.-