Everyone says life is like a story, with a clear beginning and clear end. Well, perhaps it’s more like a book. A physical object that came from something else, built into a specific form, but contents within require so much more to be more than mere paper. Life, then is the story. Is it a story of just of individual? Is it a story just of the conflict? Certainly to be worth anything there must be characters and strife, for the men who live the easiest lives tell the dullest tales. I’m not claiming to be a martyr for a cause, nor a hero of legend, but my life is still a story, bound in flesh and time.
Life never really gets interesting until the conflict arises. Birth, love, anger, death. All fair places of influence. These four pillars are things that seem like great times of life, despite their commonplace occurrence. Thousands of people die just to be replaced by thousands more in that very same instance. You may be too young to experience death, or hardened because of it. You may be at just the right time to love, but perhaps might not know how to properly. You’ve certainly been born, and I’m quite sure you haven’t died, so there is much for you to do in between.
But what of my story? Well, it’s far too long to tell you in this brief tale, but I can tell you that I have experienced three of the four, and can’t wait for more. Love has never been my friend- fickle and always in flight. Anger I have felt, at times it was wrong and but I wanted a fight. And death. The final test of one’s might. I shan’t name names or I’ll be here all night. But my life is still long (I hope) and the future looks bright, just know that if you learn from your past, all will be right.
Like the archeologist, the professional riddler; one can take the pieces of the past and paint a new picture, solve a puzzle or find a hidden feature. This can turn a man into a creature, or drive it in reverse, but at the end of the day we start in blankets and end in a hearse. Let it go but never forget. Learn from the past and remember to regret. If you don’t know what you did wrong you’ll never do right- unless chance takes a chance and the heavens shine down their light.
Life is but once, encased in a tome, starting in any place: London, Paris, Frankfurt or Rome. The story gets better as you close to the end, where the characters find out who’s an enemy and who’s a friend. Those who are good stick through to the back, and those who are less, the story should lack. Embrace the struggles of time, for they make you strong. Embrace the delights, as we’re not around long. Embrace love, before it’s too late and the chance is gone. Embrace life, for all the right and the wrong. Think for yourself, because only you are you, and only your head and your heart know what is true.
My story still has much to say, and pages upon pages to be filled (unless the author is stupid and I get killed). But pages are filled day by day, and new chapters spring up in the months like June and May, and some arcs fall in the months like in September or October, but even in the frigid winters of life, your story is not over.
I can re-read the pages of my youth and I can see the back cover, but to make the end worth it all I’ll have write it page by page and find out if I’m a villain or a lover.