The bygone days are pages of history. Only if we could go back in time...so many small and big changes could we have made. An unexpressed love could have been expressed, a sin could have been undone, a mistake could have been corrected... history could have been changed... But once a page is written in history, it cannot be re-written. So even though we can repent for our sins, sins committed remain sins. As people, we can only try not to commit the same mistake twice. But that doesn't change the mistakes that we have already made, the mistakes whose details already hang from the pages of our history book. Don't we all have our own history volumes?
Each of us has our own single edition history book. The more we live, the fatter our history volume becomes. Each day that is crossed out from life becomes a new page of that volume. Each day begins with a fresh page, snow-white and spotless. But as every hour goes past, a few words, a new line or maybe a whole paragraph is written. You cannot see them, read them as they write, but they are written in indelibe ink on pages that record even the triflings of our lives. Sometimes when we are alone in our own world, we flip the pages of that book that no one else can see, read a few lines, contemplate, read again, smile at a pleasant event, shed tears when eyes glance over the saddest moments of life, frown at one of those unresolved mysteries of life...and close eyes to walk down the memory lane to reach the past that is light years away.
If life is a history book, if each day is nothing but a page of that book, what are we? It's writer, reader, or sole owner?
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