I miss you. Strange, because you’re still here. My mind is playing tricks on me, I know. Telling me what the heart is going to want in the not too distant future.
I’m ready to go. I need to go. To get away. To write the next part in my “book of life.” Yet I wonder if and how you fit into the pages. I know you’re there somehow, I’m just not sure as to which pages I’ll find you on: what roll you’ll play in the grand scheme of the story; whether you’ll make appearances often at first and then slowly fade away; whether the reverse will happen; whether you’ll be a recurring and significant character in the story.
I wonder these things as I do with all books I read. With each page turned, I find myself guessing as to how the book is going to end and I find myself guessing as to how this particular story is going to end. It’s like one of those great books that comes to an abrupt end and leaves you wondering about how the story in fact plays out: what may or may not have happened to or between the characters at the end of the book; did they make it or didn’t’ they? Did that someone you’ve suspected all along complete the crime or didn’t they? What happened? You don’t know and you never will; the outcome of the story is solely up to you to determine; up to your imagination and rationale to fill in the blanks –to piece the story together.
It seems as though the ending will be one that is inconclusive and you’re left imagining how rationale will weave its way into the story. But it never does. It never does. And it’s up to you to fill in the blanks.
It’s strange, this book I’m writing. I keep taking wild guesses as to how it all plays out and after seemingly running every possible scenario through my mind the only thing I know is that I miss you. My imagination runs wild and rationale never kicks in and I imagine every possible scenario and, I miss you.