Life Essay, Research Paper

Life

What is life? Is it a enigma? Is it an escapade? Is it a manner to assist

others? Or is it so brief compared to the remainder of the clip in the existence it has

no significance at all? Peoples have been inquiring this for 1000s of old ages,

yet no 1 has found an reply. Many expression for complicated ways to

understand life, yet the reply is so simple ; life is a book.

Since the twenty-four hours the binding was opened for the first clip, and the writer

began writting the narrative ; every idea, action, and emotion that is

experienced is written into the book. Memory is merely rereading the book.

Some pages torn, lodge together, smeared so we can & # 8217 ; t retrieve it every bit good,

but it is all writtten down. Every hope, every dream, every fright is recorded in

clip forever.

Some books have flashy, tacky screens, but tell the most troublesome

narratives on the interior. Some have dull, characterless screens, but tell the

warmest, most adventuresome narratives that causes one to remember some earlier

chapter in 1s ain life.

Every experience is a chapter. Some chapters speak of friends and

household, some speak of the most atrocious frights and the most dreamed about

hopes, and some Tell of Love and Loss that the writer experienced.

Some chapters are non finished and will be completed at a ulterior clip.

Some chapters are blurred, because non even the writer knows what

happened, or what he wishes would go on. And some chapters are clean

pages, waiting to be filled. More than one time, the writer has wished he could

travel back a few pages and rewrite it otherwise, but alas, the book has already

been published, and can non be changed.

As the book ages, it loses some of its radiance, pages tear and fade, and

the binding becomes loose. Some page

s all of a sudden become so clear, you can’t

understand why you didn & # 8217 ; t see it before, while others become so crystalline

that you can & # 8217 ; t even retrieve reading them. And after the book has become

so old that it can & # 8217 ; t even be read or moved without falling apart, it is taken out

of circulation and stored. Not merely in a physical topographic point, but in people & # 8217 ; s bosom,

those who loved the book as if it was their best friend.

It is stored with every other book of every individual & # 8217 ; s life back before

humanity could even talk with more than oinks and organic structure langauge.

It is stored in the Great Library. As you look around this glorous

library, the books stack higher than any mountain, and strech farther than any

oculus can see. And on every shelf are books, and in the centre of the room are

1000s of books unfastened to different pages and chapters entering the

writer & # 8217 ; s commands from the start of the book until it is finished and published.

And so there are the old books that are being called out of circulation,

catalogued and stored. You reach out and get down reading one of the many

books. It is the life of your friend.

You take notice of how many times your ain book convergences with your

friend & # 8217 ; s book, and how similar the narratives are. As you read this book, you see

the significance of life, non what the narratives are, or what the screen looks like, but

how every book tells a different narrative ; and while many may overlap and portion

dreams, hopes, and frights, they each contain cognition and together do up

life. You see, you can & # 8217 ; t judge a book by its screen, nor can you judge a individual

by visual aspect, each complete with frights, dreams, joys, sorrows, memories,

friends and familes. Together we all make up life, and our narratives inspire

others to turn and to hold the best narrative they can.