She flipped back the pages and caught snatches of familiar words and sentences. Art was supposed to imitate life in the annals of the past, but here, in black and white, she could see how her life had started to spring from the thoughts that she had created. Every single line she had written seemed to have bloomed into moments in her life, from seed to stem to petal and withered leaf, she could see it all. Everything stood out starkly in her face, like pale pink rosebuds at the bottom of a pitch black onyx bowl.
Unwittingly, we write out the episodes of our lives much before they take place.
1 comment:
Inevitably one learns much from reading what one has written about one's past.
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