On my bed, I read The City of Ember. It’s a hard-bound copy, taped and sealed with a promise of a light darkness. To mark my passage across its pages is a deep, velvet red leather bookmark embossed with the words, The Hobbit. It often reminds me that I should return to my literary sojourn of Middle Earth very soon.
As I read through, I came upon plenty of pages that were left dog-eared by its previous borrower. I ask, why on earth do they perform such sacrilege to books!
(I’ll never get over it.)
When I pinched the dog-eared page with my fingers, I felt, suddenly, an instant connection to whomever once read the same written words, and felt the same roiling emotions as we followed Lina and Doon on their quest to save a city forgotten under the earth.
I often wonder if our destinies, our individual strings that lay across the world in tight leashes or unspooled across the continents, have always been so active in our every day but we simply forget, or are whimsy to it, because we are tragic creatures who’d rather dream of it, or watch it unfold in other people’s lives than our own?
What if we pledged our days, bygones and so, tightly to the reality of our own authorship of our lives? If we but say when and allocated a smile for the littlest touches between all of us; the lingerers and wanderers of this magnificent terra!
Can you imagine?
The unfolding of our watery courses in this vibrant/muted suburbia, country town, village, anchorage, city.
The illustrations we produce for each other without knowing; the photographs we share, seen by eyes thousands, millions of measurements away.
The same breath, the same persons.
Every one, every soul.
So entwined, connected, affiliated!
Destiny! Like, how glorious is authored destiny!