Everyone is born with a book, where the story of your life is written within its pages. In the beginning the pen in which it is written with is held by your parents and as you get older the grip of your parents hand loosens until finally the pen is in your hand. But my parents aren’t like that. As the years pass by their grip on that pen is getting tighter and tighter. Every choice that I make soon becomes theirs. Everything I want is inferior to what they want. The pen that belongs to me is chained to their hand. I try to take it, to get back what belongs to me, but its not use my life that is supposed to belong to me is not mine. It’s supposed to be mine, but I don’t think it will ever be. But I know that if there is any way to steal my pen back I will take that chance and once I have my life back, I will never return to the sorry existence of what I call my life.