The Unspoken Story

A book lies upon a desk, dust caked to it, a single hand print not upon it. Its spine is stiff and sturdy from not a single person reading it. And its pages are clean from the oils from fingers. Each day, practically every hour, a new paragraph is miraculously written along its pages, either creating a new chapter or an entirely new section. So far, the pages are uncountable, for there are already over a thousand and so, beginning from the birth of its author and continuing on until their death.

The author is in her late teen years and yet her story has not been told. And she has not yet seen what her life has truly been like, for she has drunken herself in reality. She may subconsciously know what she has become through her terrorizing dreams, bellowing her deadliest moments. But once she awakens and stirs upright drenched in sweat, she shrugs off the facts and lays back down.

Still, the book lies upon her desk concealed by many others with titles imprinted along their spines. If eyes were to trace along the books, one will notice that the author’s book is nameless and theoretically stands alone.

But, what if on the author’s final day of living, she comes across the book? Maybe she’ll want to begin reading it there. Make a cup of tea and get the couch ready for her to plop down and soak into the world the book withholds. Of course, within the first chapter, or second or third, she recognizes the similarities that the book shares from her actual life and it helps her acknowledge how hellish her life has really been. Maybe at that moment, she comes to terms with her life and accepts the consequences that may come afterward.

But, what if it’s the entire opposite after she begins reading, and she realizes this is the hellish life she has lived for some eighty odd years? Would she dare to continue on after she has ignored reality and left herself drunk for many decades?

Would you dare to read your own story, knowing you may have to live through it once more?