My Book

Long time ago, when my mama and dada taught me how to read and write. And that’s when I took one big fat book of blank pages and with a pen; I started to pour everything in life into the book. Somehow, few years back, I messed up my pages with crappy words, broken English and the worst handwriting that was hardly readable for me or anyone else. My perfect book was no longer perfect. Everyone who adored reading it hated every bit of it.

So I decided I can do this again. Write a whole new book without mistakes and in perfect handwriting. I gave it a thought that why write something no one understood or even myself understood. So I took my stand, strong and steady. However, my new book seemed to be the ideal great book where the English was so wonderful and the word flow was flawless.

The new book was not only well thought-out as the best career move but also the presence that isn’t obsessed by the past. Until today when traumatized bits of my old book blew with the wind towards a rough and confusing day or bumpy and puzzling presence.

The worst is when there isn’t a way to burn off my old book or even expunge it off. Its strong and its hell lot of years to be erased. The book taught me greater and bigger lessons than ever probable. Somehow, I want to bury it, burn it, tear it off and just go through the pages of my new book when it makes sense and even sometimes music of a lifeless verve, which might never be promising in the natural cycle of life.