Sometime in our lives everyone imagines how their lives will turn out. Whether their mistakes will turn into the best decisions they made or whether they will face the consequences of it forever.
What would their story be?
What would their story be?
Imagine that at the end of our lives, each one of us has our own biography. The kind that we’ve read about Mahatma Gandhi, Anne Frank, Maharani Gayatri Devi. Even Amy Winehouse (only after she died, of course). And like most perceptive readers, we are transcended into the time and lives of these people. And a judgement is passed invariably. You wish you knew this person, or you hope that you never cross paths with them.
If I was a person who read the story of my life, what would I think of me?
Would I feel proud to be me? Will I feel like I did the right things in life? Will I feel like I made people around me happy? Would someone want to be me, or a part of my life. Sigh and say “Wish I knew her”.
Or would I be the person who has only spread pain, passed on my misery to others and have been nothing but a source of darkness in the lives of people I was a part of. Like a dementor. Sucking the happiness out of you.
Who decides how your story turns out to be?
The gods above, your stars, the alignment of your planets, or the lines on your palm? That’s the thing about the story of our lives. We all write our own stories, and in the end, you’ll be the only one who knows it line by line, word to word.
Each day, we add a page, a line, a punctuation here and there. Making beautiful carvings or scarring the pages forever. We lie, we deceive or we love and we give.
Who would you rather be? Would you like to know yourself, be yourself in lives to come. To exude your sunshine and brightness, offering warmth to every person that touches upon your life?
Or would you be disgusted and ashamed of who you are. Live with the self-disgust that is embedded in every person who lies and deceives his way through life. Basking in the unreal sense of happiness that you get in the moment. Like a drug, giving you a high but poisoning you from within. Live with the deep discontent and filth that becomes your soul, and which will belong to you forever, unchanged, irreplaceable. Something that even death will not do apart.
The choice lies with you. Each day, every day, every moment.
Which book do you want to be? The beautiful book that makes you sleep with a dream waiting to be seen or a tragic self-help series, lying in pity in every bookstore that no one wants to buy?
