Our lives are like congenerous novels filled with chapters denoting each part of our lives. An assortment of descriptive details, an accumulation of moments that we encounter and live each page, only to start a new page when we open our eyes to arise. Some books are worn and tattered the binding barely holding the pages within. Some books are scrupulous and untarnished as if it were freshly pressed as it lays there waiting to be read. We turn each page not knowing how the book will ever end yet, we digress losing focus of the moments we truly cherish and remember the times we regret. The regretful moments we try to edit but the ink bleeds and stains the page, leaving a mark on that chapter filled with the descriptive details of the moments we try to forget. Each character we introduce, creates an ambiance that can draw us in and as we look onto the next page that character has already moved on and the next chapter begins. We write our chapters onto the congenerous novels we create, perplexed and bewildered as we end our day to only be empowered for the saga that continues each and every day.
Never be bullied into silence. Never allow yourself to be made a victim. Accept no one’s definition of your life; define yourself.- Harvey Fierstein
David, Death of Marat.
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