A book of my life would look like a twist and turn ride on a train that keeps on loosing it’s wheel letters and missing on the stops.
Another book of my life would have here and there a page torn by some angry word.
And yet another would smell like hot springs and a never ending story, a drop of dream and a hint of a hallucination.
The next is made of pages that fleet like scared birds and as I capture one of them, I can’t find my rhythm on what I have scribbled there.
Where is the magic? I’d like to have a book that can show me any book on earth I could ever wish for.
And should it be my own, I’d read on without knowing. I wonder if I’d like it.
Most times I don’t think I could stand reading it. Some fragments I kept I still haven’t read to this day.
It feels like I’d taint them with my colored fingertips. I’m no longer that, and that is not my book. So how could I possibly begin to understand?
I have yet to find a place I can rest upon and look back to the myself I was.
Today I am more than just one self, or so I lay a story for myself to pass the day and digest what’s new.
I feel and so I write. I fill over the blanks of where my mind should be.
I build the blocks of another world I don’t know if I’ll ever share.
It’s for me to stroll through, and poke the blocks… but wait … was this about a book about me?
If it comes from me, my imagination, doesn’t it make it somehow about me?
By some mysterious process doesn’t the hidden abyss inside my head point out to what I have yet to realize about my existence?
Whatever I write, I’m enjoying it. Writing about myself is something very hard and unpleasant. Because I don’t know who to write about.
The definition is incomplete and it squeaks at the seams.

So to begin with … Who am I?

Again, the inspiration came from a song, Sting – The Book of My Life