Every once in a while, it seems as though your life is divided into chapters in a novel. When you look back on your own there are a few instances that stand out in my mind. Just a few chapters are so beautiful and perfect that you can’t help but smile when you turn back to their pages. You look back longing to go back to those moments or at the very least somehow recreate them. Yet, no matter how hard you try to go back to that beautiful chapter, turn back the pages of the book or fabricate that moment or emotion, it will never be the same. You can’t turn back the growth of the characters or plotline in a story; just like a novel, life is an unraveling story that changes and develops.
The more you try to retell an old chapter the more you end up frustrated, grieving the loss of the person you once were and the person you could have been. The real tragedy in the story is not the circumstances, but perhaps the way you reacted to them, forcing the wheel of life in a new direction. You feel overwhelmed with indecision-- anxious that you will choose a path that you will wish you could rewrite. People come and go. You try and fight the inevitable--fight the fact that everything must come to an end. You wish for a grand reunion of lost loves and passions--mending past regrets, fixing the people you have hurt and telling others how much they really meant to begin with.
You think back to those high points and begin to comprehend that they came together in a way and time you’d never expect. They were not mere milestones that society tells you ought to be your happiest moments or something you dreamt up in times of loneliness. A story of true beauty and perfection is written by someone with great and rare talent. It is then I realize I am not the author of my own novel. And I feel at peace letting the gusts of life pulling me in different directions pass me by. I relinquish my pen and paper. That alone gives me peace. Peace and hope. For today and for tomorrow.
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