Something I wrote a while back that I would like to share:

I closed the book that had my past strewn upon the pages.

It was no longer bound.

My past life came crashing down and was scattered all over the floor unto which I stood.

No longer were my memories in order.

No longer did I feel the need to rekindle my lost works, for they were no longer welcomed in my present story.

So, I set them aside and moved onto a new novel…my own.

I searched a room filled with marvelous story books in a quest for my own blank manuscript.

I sought out a new story, a new beginning, middle, and end.

It would be written the way I have always dreamed my own story would be.

I dreamed of a life of happiness, understanding, and bliss.

Finally, on the furthest shelf hidden amongst dust and cobwebs, I found my future masterpiece.

I held an empty book in my eager hands, a book that was bound strong and sturdy, one that could withstand the constant rummaging through its pages.

I opened the new book and turned to a clear and crisp page.

It felt as if this book was calling my name to lay a sea of ink upon the many parchment pages.

I committed to the pages and a stream of words flowed onto them.

My heart was emptied, and all that I loved was tattooed upon them.

My book was permanent and always there for me to confine it.

Reading my words kept my heart beating, filling an emptiness that had risen inside me.

I found what I had always been missing and wrote what my heart told me.

My own book not only brought me back to life but let my life live on.

It was through my words and these pages, I told my story, a story that I found satisfaction with, for it was truly my own.

I placed it back onto the wooden shelf to sit in peace amongst the others.

I know it will be there forever for anyone to read and ponder, wondering how their life could be changed with just the will to write it.