THE BOOK ON THE BOOKSHELF

On another page, in another chapter, what twists and turns will happen to allow many unknown plots? I'm standing underneath the stars waiting for the moon to come out to play and tell me about the moment I was born and how much more I need to learn.

On this page that I write as I'm reading, I'm dancing with the devil while singing songs of heaven that no longer exists and the fire of hell starting to take over the ground we walk on. The trumpets are playing, and the angel and demons are digging the love sound inside my head.

I keep writing and turning the pages. I am the author of my own life. Even though my hand is turning numb, I am not yet done. This book of mine is not for everyone; there are books that are not meant to be for me.

As I begin to put the finishing touches on this book, I ask myself how much more time I have left to give it a title and lay it down hidden on my family's bookshelf. I may be gone, but my book can still be found and reread, for my life continues. It never seems to end.