In the beginning there was more colour than words.
Magic and marvel weaved their way through grubby scribbles from childish hands
As the years went by and simple marvel diminished
Words grew stronger
Eloquence enhanced
The mastery of diction set in
As sophistication swelled,
Pages gleamed like burnished lamps
And readers basked in their radiance
In ecstasy the words began to race....the pages of my book were filling faster, faster
My story emboldened...the colours were vivid... my pen, magnificent.
I felt unstoppable.
Alas 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
The chapters sometimes erratic,
But always unpredictable.
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 down on ink stains, weary hands, the 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.
