Life, I realise, is a storybook. As soon as you are born, you are given a particular name and a picture which portrays you in a unique way.
As they say, the story is already being written by the author- the almighty, chapters have an end, a prosperous or preposterous end, the way destiny plans it.
People, I realise, are the readers who come, gaze you for a while; judge you by the cover, the way you look and finally leave if they don’t find you much appealing, leaving you disappointed and depressed.
At this stage, you try to enhance the cover, you try to make it more appealing despite of knowing the fact that the words, the morals, the story, the inner you are still the same.
And then, few come, look at the fascinating cover you have been glamorizing to woo people around.
They begin with a chapter. They turn about the pages, entering the life of yours. You seem to be happy. But then eventually and gradually, they find out that that wasn’t a good thought. They start realising that this was not the kind of genre they were in search of. Infatuation. Just a mere infatuation. Thus, they leave. They leave in between, untouched, unnoticed, leaving the middle page folded.
But beyond the shadow of doubt, at one or the other point, we come across a reader who overlooks the cover and tries to grasp the depth of the words engraved within you. The one who achieves in doing so, is the loved one. Someone who rattles you out of your comfort-zone, knocks the air out of your lungs, and turns the pages of the book in a very delightful and pleasant way.
They initiate with the very first page, the beginning of your whole new journey.
Perhaps, they make you realise that every word conveys a different meaning. Every page is a new phase.
They make you realise that life has its own ups and downs but nonetheless the book is yet to be completed.
As they turn the pages of the book, they gradually form a special bonding, the bonding of affection, respect and love. Then you realise, it wasn’t about the cover but the words, the soul, the inner you which was worth captivating.
The chapters, the pages, I realise are the phases. Each chapter, therefore, has a start and an end.
But amazingly, if the book is already being written by the almighty; as they say, why bother about anything? Why work hard? what if you just stop at the verge and let the pages turn over on their own?
The enigma would rather be suspicious.
The story, I realise, isn’t complete.
The almighty, I realise, is not the author but the creator.
The author, I realise, are you.
Life is a storybook, yet to be completed.