“Do not finish the book.” Throughout my teen years my mother would tell me this often, and the majority of the time it was confusing. I must admit she always says things that sound crazy, so I took it with a grain of salt. The book she was talking about was something she gave to me as a child to use like a journal. It had the word “Life.” On the cover. It was my haven, honestly, I felt ecstatic every chance I got to fulfill my writer’s desires. It felt like a young poet’s dream in a corny way.
I always dreamed about becoming a writer, but something felt off about that idea, so it changed. That was until I got this book, I cannot even explain it. It is like it has a hold on me, and I am enraptured by it. I write about my life, and what I have done, but then again, it is that constantly inconsolable feeling like I am talking to myself half of the time for unknown answers. Time goes by and I am older now. I still have the book with me, but now it feels like a burden weighs over me when I hold it. Whenever I have it in my possession instead of socializing, I habituate myself in my room locked away from the world.
A month passed by and I stopped writing in it because I realized I had only four pages left. I thought to myself, “uh? I swear there was just more pages in here yesterday?” I was so confused but then continued my day as usual. Later on I was cooking in the kitchen and then, BOOM! A loud crash came from the living room. I screamed so loudly and grabbed the first thing I had, which was a rolling pin, and headed towards the living room slowly. My breathing is insufferable and I am started to panic because there could be an intruder. As soon as I got to the living room, there was no one there except my book that fell on the ground.
“Weird.”
As moments passed by, I felt a gnawing feeling was growing inside me like a parasite does to its prey. Out of nowhere, “Ringggg,” God, my phone scared me. Who could genuinely call me now? I did not really care in that moment. I got back to the book and when I reached the last official page I had written there were only two pages left.
“It could not hurt to finish the book,” I thought to myself.
I start pouring out my heart and soul into these pages, announcing my voice across the lines on the sheets in front of me. Dreams, aspirations, goals, and thoughts. It felt like I regained my sense of desire once more. I wanted to keep going again and finally pursue this passion, but right as I found the voice I wanted to come out, a different voice came out instead.
“You finished the book.”
I glanced up from the page and finally understood what my mother meant: finishing my chapter of existence.
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