What is life? Is it a mystery? Is it an adventure? Is it a way to help others? Or is it so brief compared to the rest of the time in the universe it has no meaning at all? People have been wondering this for thousands of years, yet no one has found an answer. Many look for complicated ways to understand life, yet the answer is so simple; life is a book. Since the day the binding was opened for the first time,and the author began writting the story; every thought, action, and emotion that is experienced is written into the book. Memory is just rereading the book.
Some pages torn, stuck together, smeared so we can’t remember it as well, but it is all writtten down. Every hope, every dream, every fear is recorded in time forever. Some books have flashy, tacky covers, but tell the most troublesome stories on the inside. Some have dull, nondescript covers, but tell the warmest, most adventurous stories that causes one to recall some earlier chapter in ones own life. Every experience is a chapter. Some chapters speak of friends and family, some speak of the most horrible fears and the most dreamed about opes, and some tell of Love and Loss that the author experienced.
Some chapters are not finished and will be completed at a later time. Some chapters are blurred, because not even the author knows what happened, or what he wishes would happen. And some chapters are blank pages, waiting to be filled. More than once, the author has wished he could go back a few pages and rewrite it differently, but alas, the book has already been published, and cannot be changed. As the book ages, it loses some of its shine, pages tear and fade, and the binding becomes loose.
Some pages suddenly become so clear, you can’t understand why you didn’t see it before, while others become so transparent that you can’t even remember reading them. And after the book has become so old that it can’t even be read or moved without falling apart, it is taken out of circulation and stored. Not only in a physical place, but in people’s heart, those who loved the book as if it was their best friend. It is stored with every other book of every person’s life back before humanity could even speak with more than grunts and body langauge. It is stored in the Great Library.
As you look around this glorous library, the books stack higher than any mountain, and strech farther than any eye can see. And on every shelf are books, and in the center of the room are thousands of books open to different pages and chapters recording the author’s dictations from the start of the book until it is finished and published. And then there are the old books that are being called out of circulation, catalogued and stored. You reach out and begin reading one of the many books. It is the life of your friend. You take notice of how many times your own book overlaps with your riend’s book, and how similar the stories are.
As you read this book, you see the meaning of life, not what the stories are, or what the cover looks like, but how every book tells a different story; and while many may overlap and share dreams, hopes, and fears, they each contain knowledge and together make up life. You see, you can’t judge a book by its cover, nor can you judge a person by appearance, each complete with fears, dreams, joys, sorrows, memories, friends and familes. Together we all make up life, and our stories inspire others to grow and to have the best story they can.