And if our lives would only get stashed – piled in a giant, teeming library, where everyone's ghost and memories would end up written in one of those metal-rimmed books, I would love mine to be seated somewhere at the corner, where a streak of light peeks in; where people wouldn't usually come into, only those curious ones with eyes wide and always probing.
For only the curious ones pick the books of bleak covers, of austere titles – or the ones with no title at all. And they would pick mine up, mouth gaping, not because of awe, but of odd surprise to find it empty – useless. But he will skim through the book and pause at the last page.
Author's note: They say, "Write your own story" but then I reckoned, "Why would I?" My story's already written among the stars and there is nothing left to do but to live it, because that's what we always fail to do.
We are so busy trying to figure out what life is, how life works, how to write it better than anyone else.But you know what? That's when we stop living; that's when we start to just exist.
YOU ARE READING
Paper & Ink |#Wattys2016|
Poetry"I am the black on white; the ink on paper." A collection of my nightly thoughts and daydreams. Highest rank: #5 in Poetry. Please enjoy reading and find a friend in one of my works. :)
