Life is like a book, there is a beginning we are exuberant to start, but an end we fear will come all too quickly. Every page comes with its own surprises, and we are eager to turn each one. Every book is unique, has a protagonist and an antagonist, and has a different ending; happily ever after or not. Every chapter’s title gives us the slightest taste of what’s approaching, but we never really know what’s going to happen until we are brave enough to read each word.
Sometimes we may not know what some of the words mean, or the writing style we are given is confusing, but we must be patient and evaluate on what’s happened. Who knows? Maybe everything will fall into place later on.
In the electrifying, astonishing novel of my life, I am on an unknown journey to conquer an unknown enemy, and return to an unknown place; a utopia. As I proceed on my journey, I explore new things and enjoy each page as it comes. I sample different experiences, some pleasurable and congenial, others excruciatingly boring. But it was on this peculiar chapter of my novel, where I found that little key. Like a person that at first looks like every other one in the endless crowd, but later grows to stand by you at all times, ready to catch you when you fall; that little key friend that you can always depend on. This is the friend that never fails you, the one you can fall back on whenever you need it. This key is your major support system, the key to get you through the day. Now that you have the key, the novel becomes slightly predictable, the pleasing kind of predictable, the kind were you can plan ahead, and have a game plan for the rest of the book, but infuriatingly enough, only a microscopic bit predictable.
This key to me is writing.
Writing is my best friend in the entire world because there are endless words you can use to describe just precisely how you are feeling. If you are aggravated, or blissful; full of despair or excited beyond content. When you are utterly saturated with emotion and all you can do is attempt to put it into words. Paper is about a million times more understanding than people, because it will eternally be patient and faithful to you. It’s always ready to listen, it is delightfully amicable. It's never selfish and always ready to hear a story, no matter how hyperbolized it may be.
Of course, I must keep reading this book, no matter how long or short it may be. There is no bookmark, there is no pause button; it’s just one on-going read-a-thon. And no matter how difficult those pages become to bear, if the story makes my cry my eyes out because of one intricate paragraph of life; I must go on and keep my foundation of faith firm and grounded.
I have an unfathomable, burning, carnivorous passion in my heart that burns like a bonfire. It is not only that I enjoy writing, or want to do it; I need to write. There is no ocean which could put out my fire, it is ceaselessly ablaze. Writing is my whole life now, nearly as important as my lungs which allow me to intake oxygen or the veins which pump blood to my heart. Writing is the friend that will endure to the end with me, the end of this book, even if the only words at the end of the book read “To be continued. . . “