We watch the pages turn, day in and day out. The candles burning down. Before our very eyes.
Pages of the same story. Words rewritten. Different combinations of the same twenty-six letters and some. Not unlike life itself — the same story repeated for everyone, subtle differences here and there. Though it all starts and ends the same way.
Sometimes, it’s shorter. A flame, blown out before the candle can melt away.
Sometimes, the candles get knocked over, and the city burns to ashes with them.
But it all ends the same way.
The flames die out, and there’s nothing left but ashes that scatter with the slightest breeze.
Even that, eventually, disappears.
The pages are then torn out, thrown away. Paper butterflies carried away in the wind until they find a new beginning. Then the whole cycle starts again.
It’s a fairy tale with no happy ending.
But we can start over, from the first blank page. Write our own story, word by word. Carve it into our soul, and remember it in the age to come.
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