If each year is a page in my book of life, I turned another leaf over today. I think that way. My life is a book. I am it’s protagonist. Sometimes I’m the hero, often I’m the villain.
Each year is a page. The first few are blank, of course. I didn’t have a thought in my head besides, I’m hungry, I’m tired, I shat myself. The last few, I suspect, will be much the same. Maybe the next few pages after my first are rudimentary drawings. Caveman-like renderings of stick figure me and family members by an A-frame home and a bright yellow sun. What next? A noun followed by a verb. A few pages later, I’m beginning school now. I’m conscious of a world beyond my family, my neighborhood. I know Vietnam is a thing. I’ve heard the Beatles.
Paragraphs next. What is important to me? Actually, what is beyond important? What are my obsessions? I think about girls. Perhaps there are pages, whole years, when I think about little else but a single girl. When I was 11 years old, the girl was named Angela. At 14, I couldn’t get Linda off my mind.
The pages are filled. Time passes. Here’s page 27: I’ve been dating a young lady for some time. I propose and we marry. The sentences show thought. The paragraphs are complicated. The page stands out. It’s important. Seven pages on, a son is introduced. 4 years later, Pleased to meet you, my daughter. The next dozen pages barely involve me at all. I write about my children. Then, two years of divorce.
Here I am at page 56. The book is more than half filled. Way more, if I’m honest. I think back. I’m not happy with this book. I wonder if there’s still time to write better pages. Will my last page be a simple drawing of a man and a woman beside an A-frame house with a bright yellow sun behind it?
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