Book of Days

I tried. I put each piece back in place. Here and there one would snag, tear at me, cause me pain, but stop me? No. I put that back too. The books, this page, are full of them.

Think of a pen filled with ink. That black line left on white can do so much, but it can’t take back the mark it leaves, like the phrase you have heard about words which have left the mouth. Words hurt for what are in them. “Sticks and stones may break your bones, but words will break your soul.” The ink in the pen is time. The words on the page what I have done with that time. I too have caused harm, no one is free of that, but by the stroke of my pen I write what I have learned.

I go back to each page, I know them well, they bring back all the past days of fun and fear. Those days brought me here. Those words taught me who I am now. To read them is to see me, as I have grown.

Still, it is not a task I like. It is a good thing to do, but pain is there. I own it. I can live with it.

I will write down the next day.

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