All Nonfiction Bullying Books Academic Author Interviews Celebrity interviews College Articles College Essays Educator of the Year Heroes Interviews Memoir Personal Experience Sports Travel & CultureAll Opinions Bullying Current Events / Politics Discrimination Drugs / Alcohol / Smoking Entertainment / Celebrities Environment Love / Relationships Movies / Music / TV Pop Culture / Trends School / College Social Issues / Civics Spirituality / Religion Sports / Hobbies
- Summer Guide
- College Guide
- Author Interviews
- Celebrity interviews
- College Articles
- College Essays
- Educator of the Year
- Personal Experience
- Travel & Culture
- Current Events / Politics
- Drugs / Alcohol / Smoking
- Entertainment / Celebrities
- Love / Relationships
- Movies / Music / TV
- Pop Culture / Trends
- School / College
- Social Issues / Civics
- Spirituality / Religion
- Sports / Hobbies
- Community Service
- Letters to the Editor
- Pride & Prejudice
- What Matters
Someday, I am going to write the story of my life on a piece of paper, and cast it into the wind. I’ll watch as it floats away, that scrap of paper, with everything written on it in my slanted hand.
But then again, what is everything?
As a pronoun, its definition is; all. A single word that means Everything. All that exists.
All that exists in my world. Everything.
The wind would take away Everything.
What is My Everything?
The definition of My Everything is; my life.
What is My Life?
The definition of My Life is; emotion. Physical emotion. Emotion in form of thought.
Color. Music. Sounds. Smells. Thoughts. Memories. Burdens. Love.
The list could go on forever. It would. Maybe it would be not one piece of paper that I tossed into the wind, but two? Three? Ten? One Hundred?
And what would happen after I cast My Life away? My Everything? Would it all be gone? Just like that?
Do I want it to be gone? The tragedies, yes. But my love, diminished?
I would sit for days in my study, in my hard wooden chair facing the olive green walls with no windows, and I would just stare. Everything would be gone. I wouldn’t feel a thing any longer. Not physical, not emotional. And someday–someday, they, the people, would come and get me. They would carry me away, to a place where my hair was brushed for me, my meals fed to me by someone else’s hand. And I would still sit in my chair–maybe I’d be waiting for something.
But can one wait, when they feel and think nothing at all?
Then It would come.
It would be holding my scrap of paper in its hand.
It would offer it to me.
I would take it.
I wouldn’t look at it. But maybe my hand would trace the words I’d written so long ago.
I would smile.
And then It would offer a hand. That hand that had held My Life.
My soul would reach out and take it.
And I would return with It, My Life still clutched in my other hand.