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The Book

It was written in a language incomprehensible to him. He attempted to decipher its meaning, and found it impossible. Many times he abandoned it, but was drawn back to it, by a kind of unwilling fascination.

As time withdrew, an inner restlessness overwhelmed him. Once again, he picked up the book and recieved a tremendous shock, it was the book his soul had written at the beginning of time.

At last the language became clear, events that had shaped his life took on a new meaning. Everything appeared more real somehow, pain and joy became almost irrelevant. The book of the soul contained all manner of messages - hidden, yet manifest. All things revealed a purpose, the most trivial of incidents, long forgotten, now remembered, conveyed truths hitherto undreamed of.

The book was difficult to follow and hard to interpret. He had learned to read it only when the last chapter of his life came upon him.

The last chapter was approaching its end. "The Death of Life" was not the easiest of narratives to absorb. He wanted to complete the book, but it was still in the process of being written. He had not realized his soul was still writing it.

Then, a trembling shook him, the pen slipped and rolled on to the floor. His eyes gazed at it and then at the book, it was now finished.

Journey's end, things made sense to him only as his senses departed. The book, unread for a greater part of his life, only to be understood at the very end.

The skies opened their gates, and invited him to pass through them. Light escorted him to his final destination.

 
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