I never intended for this blog to reflect my life. I love my blog because it acts as a medium for me to channel my odd thoughts, stories, and poetry as an escape from my life. I'm aware that I just posted about the LTI and the joy I had from buying two books, but my life has more depth, more ridges, more craters, and more areas that are still under construction.
My life is a novel which didn't start from page one, but begun with the publication info, table of contents, other works by the author, forward, etc. And like the characters in the book, I don't know what will happen on page 152 when I'm learning how to ride a bike on page 15. It's a story of development, the process of expanding my knowledge and view of the world -- and the story of the development of a protagonist.
And throughout this life, there's a recurring theme which we are unaware of. There are the conflicts that torment us; it tears away at the skin of our emotions, the shell of our bodies, and the center of our spirit. Then there are those piques that we so much desire and cherish; the cherry that sits atop the mountain of mush and crud.
What drives the character to finish the story? Isn't the end the death of the protagonist? Isn't the last page of a book the worst and most dispiriting part of the book? I hate endings; the time invested in the book feels like a collapsed house of cards. But yet . . . There's the hope of the character to still live strong and free, maybe not in the pages of the book, but in our memories. We know that Little Red Riding Hood and her grandmother live free from a preying wolf, we know that Jane Eyre is not spending eternity with her love -- for our stories reach for greater than the "Finis" at the end of our books. We are immortal beings, not in body but in Spirit. And God is our author.
