Life’s too short but so’s a good book.
How incredibly short life seems the more you live it! And how incredibly long the present seems the less you’re living it up!
Time flies when you’re alive and time moves slowly when life is dull. But the tapestry of life unfolds in one direction, and in one direction only no matter how intricately embroidered.
More and more, how remarkably life seems to resemble a book, a printed one, not with hypertext links that you can choose to follow or not, return or change direction but printed pages that have to be read in one direction and one direction only.
How do we remember the past? Just like a good book. Mostly by remembering the highlighted bits, choosing to remember what suits us most or what we want to remember best and by forgetting the rest. The parts that were written most eloquently, that moved us most, stand out in memory.
The optimist will say there isn’t such a thing as a wasted word. Each word matters (be it in a good way or bad) vis-a-vis the whole.
The beginning of a book is always full of possibilities. But the better the book, the faster a read it seems, the more the hurtling towards the end, the more a desire to know how it all gets resolved. Far fewer moments to pause and think, perhaps not until the end, when layers of meaning might be revealed to past events if it’s a good book.
But will a purpose be revealed for every book? Will every little event matter? Or are some books just a collection of printed words? There isn’t any purpose at all nor was meant to be.
Is it a book at all then, or a life?
Anyone else been feeling that life’s like a book?