With silver ink and an ivory quill.

A recent, good friend of mine was talking to me the other day about a personal situation which had just come up. It seems that, for some providential reasons he was being forced to revisit old chapters of his life, ones that he had assumed closed and catalogued. The problem, I told him, is that it’s not possible to think of life as a book, with our activities as words on a page.

When you read a book, you have the ability to control time, to skim ahead minutes, centuries, pages – and back. But we are lured into this false ideal; we cannot revisit old chapters as if we are placing ourselves back in the time. Our frame of reference does not stop or rewind, and you will never find that instant again that you recall so vividly. Though you may find others, that one is frozen in a book that you cannot read but live.