The Book of Life

It all starts with a blank page.

Words get written, struck, rewritten.

What will be the essence in the end?

Can you go back and change things?

What if there are points of no return?

When the last sentence is done,

What will it be worth?

Will it be loved, hated or worse, ignored?

What about the pages of yore?

That of the first man?

What did he do all day?

Perhaps only rub two stones together.

Lo behold! His mindless action lit the first spark.

In its warmth, we all bask!

In follies that one was the centre of the universe,

Pages have been written.

When someone tried to change it,

His life sentence ended.

Many a bloodshed page there has been.

But even in the bleakest of such,

There’s the punctuation of a child’s smile.

Pages written in gold embossed letters,

Silver spoon and diamond legacies.

Not any more interesting than charcoal imprints,

Engine smoke and dirty hands.

Pages that travelled the world.

Pages that stood still at a point.

Pages that moved the world.

Pages that the world moved.

Pages so abstract 

that different eyes read different words.

Pages so simple

that different hands change to different words.

On which strength stands,

There, a page of a mountain rock;

On which freshness flows,

Here, a page of a morning breeze;

On which serenity serenades,

There, a page of a wandering stream;

On which inspiration invigorates,

Here, a page of a shining spark;

Pages are right there to be seen.

But where is the author?

Why hide behind this creation?

Questions arise in surprise.

‘God’, ‘Nature’, ‘Consciousness’

‘The Force’, ‘Genes’, ‘Circumstance’

Answers abound around.

Crashing on the wall of truth,

Comes the resounding ‘You!’

You write your book!

Even though you know not to write.

The world may insist that it be written by another,

The Parent… The Teacher!

The Well-versed… The Knowledgeable!

Resist. Forget not your precious words.

It’s your precious choice!

In the colours of many languages,

Singing the same human song,

Penning the same human story;

In the fonts of many lifestyles,

Living different lives the same way,

Living the same life in different ways;

In the ordered and bordered pages of the developed,

In the overlapping and gaping pages of the developing,

Existing as the solitary word on a vast page,

Subsisting as the ignored word on a cramped page;

Standing in block prints,

Where the individual reigns supreme;

Flowing with the neighbours in cursive,

Where only society makes sense;

Whether as one in a million or one among the millions,

Pages filled as borders dictate;

Bold words fly beyond borders too.

Be it across those eons or these miles,

Every time a page is opened,

There is doubt but also hope.

Claps few; Curses too;

Clamouring voices queue.

‘This will be worthless!’

‘This will be priceless!’

‘Are you sure?’

‘What does it matter?’

‘Why don’t you just stop and end it all now?’

Just be sure to hear the whisper

Of that gentle voice, ‘Keep writing…’