Sometimes I look at the scars littering my body and trace them like the words in a book I’ve not read in a while. Page by page, I caress the marks like details as I slowly recall a novel of my past life.
I remember the protagonist almost being overcome by the antagonistic villain. I remember finding the will to thicken my skin, so the knife in my back can’t penetrate muscle and bone. A simple mark is leftover and I’m thankful for the reminder.
The story ended on an encouraging note and I’m currently writing the sequel. Prior to that first drop of ink, I outlined this new book with goals and dreams my character will aspire to reach. My plot is fulfillment, contentment.
In life, we write many metaphorical books with chapters of chaos and paragraphs of angst. We punctuate each moment with a breath and another step forward. Sometimes we write of make believe, a world to which we wish for peace and solidarity. Other times, we write of the horrors we experience.
We are the authors of our lives and though sometimes the words take on a life of their own, we hold the ability to reign in the story and nudge it back on track. We span a spectrum of genres and while our stories inevitably end, they are no less exhilarating when we, and our audience, find out how our series finishes.