They say life is like a book with many chapters. I disagree. Life is actually a series in which every relationship, every incident has its own book.
Throughout our lives so many people come and go. Some are there in the beginning, some join later. Some stay a while while others leave when it’s their time to go. Some incidents and folks are simple short stories while others are novels filled with chapters.
Some books are filled with tales of deceit, hurt, and negativity. They tell stories of falling and developing the strength to soar again. Others are filled with so much love, hope, happiness and all sorts of pleasure making one’s head rush in giddiness. Some chapters are dense, filled with so much emotion, so much deep content. Others are one sided and dry… where we don’t have the full story – only the narrator’s (our) perspective.
Our memories store these stories of varying sizes. The permanently inked verses the easily forgotten. Some stories presenting as a mini series themselves, partially written, partially waiting to unfold. The written parts read and stored to be revisited later.
And how diving into stories already written and read bring back those vivid moments as if they happened just yesterday. Leaving us with excitement, or leaving us with the pain all over again. Leaving us questioning “why” in various ways.
Some stories leaving us asking why something had to happen. Why we had to cross paths with demons. Why did hearts have to break. Why did facades have to exist.
Other stories are of pleasant weather and dinner outside of a cute little restaurant. Music playing. Positive vibes. Feeling like you’re glowing because your company makes you feel angelic. A moonlight stroll sharing anecdotes and poetry. Favorite writings. Life stories and swapping advice. Asking the hard questions which have only difficult answers.
But the biggest question perhaps that comes up a few times is “why did this have to end”. A phase of life. A good time. A relationship. A friendship.
And if by chance a story isn’t completed yet, reignited by some factor, we realize we are still writing that specific novel. Some chapters are filled with times surrounded by many. Other chapters are filled with tales of loneliness, wondering what happened to everyone. My book tells my perspective. Your book tells yours.
And only time will tell if and when those stories will be come together to tell the whole story.
From a mind that spends a lot of time thinking... 