I keep turning the pages, hoping for another chapter in the story. But each page is blank. Or maybe I’ve gotten so far inside the book, I cannot to see to the next chapter, or word…
even the next letter?
So consumed within this thought process I grow smaller and smaller, and my story around me is coming up to my ears. I cannot breathe through all this paper and ink, I cannot move because I keep slipping farther into it.
When all I can do is sit in the scribbles I’ve turned my story into, I start listening. Though feeling hopeless, my heart still thuds in faith.
Louder… Louder… LOUDER… and I am reminded of life and what this heart lives in.
In standing, the pages started shrinking, and I found the strength to leap from these deadly pages, shutting the book and putting it far from sight.
Never again will I try to find my future when I do not deserve the claim on it.
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