The book called life

Life is a book. A book that you write and the world reads. Every page is different and has a new story to it. Just the handwriting can predict the feelings you have shared in those pages.

Some pages are scribbled in a hurry because we are so excited about the event that occurred.

On some pages we write with colorful pens because life feels like a rainbow.

Some are written in a beautiful and legible handwriting because the moment is special to us and we want everyone to know about its importance in our lives.

Some pages have ink blots, from the tears that we cry while writing about the difficult days.

Some pages have the scent of a perfume. It was like walking in a fragrant garden. Maybe someone will find an old rose in between them too.

Some pages are scratched out because we are confused what really happened and how exactly we should feel.

Somewhere there might be a feather wishing to be lucky, waiting for a miracle.

Some pages are left blank because we are so broken that we can’t find words to describe our feelings.

And then, some pages are torn. The worst days of our lives. The days we wish never occurred. The days we wish to erase from our lives, the ones we wish to forget.