When I was young my heart was an open book. Still is somewhat.
But so many pages since my uncertain start have been inserted and bound, written and turned. Lived days written in a book.
Written? Too kind; absurdly vain even. Less a diary to remember days of wine and roses, more like pages of scribble and untutored doodling.
Starting out, the blank journal that is your Book Of Life is slender.
Its covers closed as eyelids joined and sleep shuttered the book tight each night.
So does my Book Of Life go to press each night.
So does yours.
What has been written so far?
And what will we write in it tomorrow?
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1 comment:
This seems like an allusion to the way the brain works, recording life one day at a time, becoming convoluted with memories that let us comprehend our lives in a stack of time. Sleep is a shuttering down chemical process that is necessary for the brain to preserve information and start fresh the next day. I like the symbolism of going to press each night. Also like the references to book review and forthcoming chapters!
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