Open the book of lifeand look back, and forward
to the places
where the choices were made.
Sit somewhere
in a patch of sun, perhaps
You made the beauty gather
here, and here
And there, where the threads unravel
Lie the mysteries.
I ate my noodles outside today, rain thundering down.. not on me, but around me. Rain washed my cobwebs clean. When they ask you, what did you do with your life? what will you say? Will you say you wrote a poem that won a competition long years ago when you were just a boy and not the consultant of a department who does not (no time to) read poetry any more? Will you tell of the time when the light moved just so and you caught the eye of a stranger to share it? Remember when you practised transcendental meditation and travelled across seas to visit family you hadn't seen in years? What tales will you tell when they ask you about yourself?
Tell a tall tale. And tell it well. The book of life is writing itself, and we have all swung along for the ride. Weave in the fiction, the spice and the glory, the pictures, the sweet dreams, the memories. The book of life is writing itself, books within books, stories without end.
