If you could read a book containing all that has happened and will ever happen in your life, would you? If you choose to read it, you must read it cover to cover.
Under the cover of night you stunned the last watchman and entered the old building.
Walking through a long hall framed with mighty carved columns, you were watching nowhere but ahead, your eyes wandering from one niche to another. You fought, deceived and starved for this moment, and there it was, somewhere in the deep of the house, hidden from strangers' eyes - the very thing you came for.
And there it was, lying on the stone floor, as if carelessly thrown during some fight for something more precious, like a forgotten folio bearing no real value; for you were the only one who could appreciate it in full vigour. The only curious thing about it was that you had no clue about what you were going to find there.
Bending on one knee, you touched the cover; it was cold and dusty, but you didn't shake it from your fingers as if the very dust was as important as the thing hidden under it. Carefully taking the web from the book - for it was nothing else but a book to a common stranger - you looked at the cover attentively, as though the letters were some kind of a code you were first supposed to decipher. The title, however, didn't contain anything but two simple words.
Your life
Two words carrying a great amount of weight under them. A whole chain of events, days and moments of a common twenty-something, each of them, no matter sad or happy, ordinary or amusing, printed into every page with no chance to be wiped away.
You turned the book in your hands hoping for any kind of bookmark, but it would be too easy. You could not make out the page you were standing at the moment; what is more, opening the book would determine your fate finally and inevitably. Having finished the book, you would get the ultimate knowledge of your life path, all the ups and downs, lucks and failures. There would be nothing left to fear or to hope for, no secrets to discover and nothing to be surprised at. You would know your every step before even thinking of making it, like a complicated mechanism programmed to do an exact sequence of operations.
You weighed the book in your hand and suddenly thought that it was the hardest thing you ever held.
Your index finger touched the corner of the cover.
***
The first rays of sun lit the chamber through one of the narrow windows.
Shivering from the morning chill, you put your coat straight. Looking at a piece of parchment being swallowed by a deeming flame, you felt your last doubts evaporating with the last burning page.
Was it a cowardly thing to do? Was all this way worth letting the book of your life burn in the fire made by your own hands?
Anyway, you hardly felt any fear as you walked out of the building without turning back.
It was time to write the next pages yourself.
Under the cover of night you stunned the last watchman and entered the old building.
Walking through a long hall framed with mighty carved columns, you were watching nowhere but ahead, your eyes wandering from one niche to another. You fought, deceived and starved for this moment, and there it was, somewhere in the deep of the house, hidden from strangers' eyes - the very thing you came for.
And there it was, lying on the stone floor, as if carelessly thrown during some fight for something more precious, like a forgotten folio bearing no real value; for you were the only one who could appreciate it in full vigour. The only curious thing about it was that you had no clue about what you were going to find there.
Bending on one knee, you touched the cover; it was cold and dusty, but you didn't shake it from your fingers as if the very dust was as important as the thing hidden under it. Carefully taking the web from the book - for it was nothing else but a book to a common stranger - you looked at the cover attentively, as though the letters were some kind of a code you were first supposed to decipher. The title, however, didn't contain anything but two simple words.
Your life
Two words carrying a great amount of weight under them. A whole chain of events, days and moments of a common twenty-something, each of them, no matter sad or happy, ordinary or amusing, printed into every page with no chance to be wiped away.
You turned the book in your hands hoping for any kind of bookmark, but it would be too easy. You could not make out the page you were standing at the moment; what is more, opening the book would determine your fate finally and inevitably. Having finished the book, you would get the ultimate knowledge of your life path, all the ups and downs, lucks and failures. There would be nothing left to fear or to hope for, no secrets to discover and nothing to be surprised at. You would know your every step before even thinking of making it, like a complicated mechanism programmed to do an exact sequence of operations.
You weighed the book in your hand and suddenly thought that it was the hardest thing you ever held.
Your index finger touched the corner of the cover.
***
The first rays of sun lit the chamber through one of the narrow windows.
Shivering from the morning chill, you put your coat straight. Looking at a piece of parchment being swallowed by a deeming flame, you felt your last doubts evaporating with the last burning page.
Was it a cowardly thing to do? Was all this way worth letting the book of your life burn in the fire made by your own hands?
Anyway, you hardly felt any fear as you walked out of the building without turning back.
It was time to write the next pages yourself.
That's a very nice piece of a literary work, bro.
ОтветитьУдалитьThanks, bro.
ОтветитьУдалитьFrankly, I still haven't even reread what I have written because I think it's some crazy sh*t : )))