I sat down on this old chair as a last effort, taking in one hand something that could write and in the other, something that could be written on. I had so many things to say yet the ink of my imagination was dry. I was reminiscing the old days as time was carelessly passing through the small window in the wall of my room along with the feint sunset light.
My journey was far from over, I just started what I always wanted to do but I still felt some accomplishment for what I have done so far. I wondered if I have done enough or if it was an illusion made from pure laziness. I dropped my writing weapon on the empty page. There wasn’t any words written on it, but it still felt like my whole life was transcribed into the very fibers of the paper. The plain-looking sheet was, even after a few glances at it, meaningless and shallow and its shining white was almost hurting my eyes from its brightness.
I wondered why I chose this piece of paper. Why did I take this particular paper to write everything I learned so far, to relate every good and bad moment of my not-so-short life? Was the sheet worth my life? On the outside, every new and unused piece of paper looks the same, there is no mistake to it, yet there’s a different feeling to each. Did I even bother finding the good one? If so, how did I manage to do something like that?
I don’t believe I picked one at random though, it was supposed to be an important choice so I couldn’t do something like this. Why would I write my life on the first sheet of paper that I could find?
Why was the paper so plain though? I decided to make it look better so I took that pen and started writing with the most beautiful handwriting I could produce.
I still had the same problem though, I did not know what to write. I had a lot of ideas but… where should I start from? If I start introducing my story, readers might get bored and stop reading before even reaching the marvelous memories I wanted to share. I wasn’t sure if I could start by those too, that didn’t really made sense. I told myself that I should start by writing what I wanted everyone to know, even if they will stop reading after a few lines.
“I love you.” I wrote on the blank paper.
Satisfied, i dropped once again my pen and looked at the paper. It still looked dull but it at least had something charming to it. I wondered if this would really work out, I guessed that I shouldn’t bother too much about this for now. I smiled and stretched my arms to open the window.
The breeze was quite refreshing, so refreshing that it lifted the corners of the paper. A quick gust came and took the sheet of paper with it outside of the window. I quickly raised from my chair but my old knees hurt so much that I had to sit down again, I reached out my hand but it was already too late.
I guess that was it, I wanted to write the story of my life, one could say it ended pretty well but no matter how you look at it, it’s a message of love without a recipient, it could mean many things but not many people could understand the meaning, I wish more could, and if something like that would happen, then my life would finally get its meaning I always wanted.