(no subject)
It is like a book. standing amongst many others just like it. but none read the same. they all have a different, epical tale to tell. the binding is strong. the cover shows the wear and tear. the scars accumulated of vast far away places and journeys through a world of increduility. It's strong threads hold it together with stability. without the thread it would not stand against unforseen contretemps of this world. it has been quavered and imbued by many of those wanting a glimpse. every page has been read. reaching out to some. ink letters spelling out the words of a million times, covering the pages. dried, tinctured spots, those made from the tears cried of a million times, sinking and melding together the unforgotten pieces. the story is of love and of loss, of strength and of tribulation. it unravels itself in the beauty and the history of which it was made. and yet it still bears blank empty pages where all expanse is still spared to one day.... conclude this epic tale.
It is... my life.
It is... my life.