Blank

whats it like to be a book, an empty, blank, book.

  Blank, the world, your life, it's a blank slate for you and others to write on. What you write, you choose, but what about other people, they choose too. What if they choose the wrong thing, are we to blame them for it? Who knows what life is about, some say religion, I say I don't know. What if there is no reason for living, then whats the point of getting all stressed out or angry about things, why do people care so much if they die? Many people will do any thing to live. Some don't have a choice, they can't live even if they wanted to, who are we to rub our lives in their faces. The world is a messed up crooked place, no one knows how to erase their slates so it just keeps getting messier. Some say you have your whole life ahead of you to figure out what life is about, but what about the life behind you, it's gone so fast you hardly have a chance to grasp it, what does it mean. Why do people constantly wait for other things to happen, when their living in that moment, they could be living an amazing life, but their sitting there waiting for the next thing to happen when it's already happening.

  I'm asking you, because I don't know.