You too are an author
Published 4:37 pm Thursday, July 1, 2010
Like the ocean waves, arising from some distant place and throwing themselves upon the shore, never to exist again, so it is with your story. It’s being written as we speak.
Yesterday you penned a page. Last month a chapter was written. Now — even now — words are forming on parchment.
Let’s turn back toward the front and see what we find.
So these were your parents? That certainly explains a few things. You have your mother’s eyes and your father’s walk. It also reveals why you look at life as you do. Why you feel so awkward in this situation and so natural in that. How you view risk and deal with conflict. My, this is interesting. That which your father found humorous likewise makes you laugh. Your mother was competitive also! Those two individuals certainly had an influence on you.
Here’s an intriguing chapter. Rather sad, actually. You were hurt, weren’t you? Deep down, where no one goes but you. All these years, you’ve kept it inside.But it comes out in other ways, doesn’t it? I know it does, for I see it in later pages. You’re only now realizing how powerful it was. The paper here is moist. Tears that fell upon it, perhaps?
And what’s this? Ha! If you and your friends had been caught, it’s no telling what would have happened. Who thought of that? Get a bunch of teens together and mischievousness rises to the surface. You were crazy!
So here’s where you fell in love. And out of love. And in love. And out. Reads like a roller coaster. Make up your mind! Your emotions seem in disarray, your life out of sorts.
Afraid. That’s what you were here. And over there. And here. Fear appears to be quite a constant companion. I notice as the book progresses it does not cease to exist, but rather your capacity to deal with it increases.
Here’s a comment made to a friend that had great significance, though you were unaware of the impact at the time. If you had only known.
These here — well, let’s just say I can’t read them aloud. They would make me blush.
But here we are. At the present. Flipping forward, there are many pages, but nothing has been written. Empty page after empty page, awaiting their turn. Waiting for you. On them, anything may be written. Anything. But once written, they cannot be erased. For then the page is turned.
Tell me, my friend: What will you write about today?