Some day when my body perishes, my soul is set free and my identify is long forgotten someone may accidentally chance upon my note book. They may perhaps be interested in the torn pages, smudged ink or the handwriting and start deciphering the words. Each page will unveil secrets. Of my heart and mind. Of people and places I don't talk of anymore. Of dreams and hopes lost. Of my idea of life, religion and love. With each line, feelings will be explored. Perhaps judged. Based on the time and situation of the reader, they will easily judge me being right or wrong with my decisions and actions. Or perhaps they will smile at my hope with a lingering feeling of nostalgia about someone else they knew or know. Perhaps they will talk of me with others. Or not. Perhaps they will decide to throw away the notebook as waste. Perhaps it will end up somewhere destroyed and forgotten. When the darkness will descend upon earth after sunset and the stars will appear, they will perhaps realize in the moment, remembering my words, that my soul lives in that torn book of ink, words and emotions. They will perhaps decide against throwing it away and keep it somewhere safe. And I will live on through my words. For that is what every writer dreams of.
© Suranya
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