Why is it that we are so obsessed with our own book until we hear about someone else's?
That mild obsessive passion of tearing apart one's pages and putting it back together like paper mache, like that original page was not good enough.
Instead of starting a new chapter we are still stuck on chapter one.
Rewriting.
And rewriting.
And again rewriting until one day death is at our doorstep and the only manuscript we can give him is a collage of chapter ones that fit in a mismatched kaleidoscope of all opposing colors.
This is the only ending if we do not stop this sick comparison of each other's stories.
