A Journey of Everlasting Words
Seven-year-old eyes glued on the pages, an orange-tinted hand blindly reaches for another tangerine. Enraptured, he smudges the paper as he rapidly flips the page, fulfilling his endless hunger with discovery and Vitamin C. Book piles like skyscrapers, his table is a city, cluttered with works stretching from biographies to Greek mythology. Seven-year-old eyes shining with fire as a spark ignites in this boy; his childish wonder never leaving him as he journeys through this book called life.
Fifteen-year-old hands fly across the keyboard, a pair of shining eyes hardly blink as they scan the words. Determined, he blackens the screen as he enters line after line, pursuing his dreams as his homework remains in the bag. Drafts flowing like a tsunami, his room is an ocean, successful papers on the wall, and crumbled pages on the floor. Fifteen-year-old feet shift impatiently underneath a table; a flame begins to illuminate a trail through this book called life.
Twenty-four dollars inserted silently in a uniform register, a depressed orange hat placed limply on a worker’s head. Machine-like, he bids the customer good day, a forgotten receipt adding to a chain now touching the floor. Emotion like a jailer, his realm is a prison, clean white tiles perfectly measure the unvaried ceiling. Twenty-four slow minutes on a bus towards home, a frowning campfire hopes for reignition; a man grows anxious to finish his story.
Thirty-four chapters printed neatly in a wooden box, a pair of legs run to meet them, sprinting like a desperate pirate. Carefully, he grabs his treasure full of hope and effort, tossing his orange hat on the floor along with unpaid bills. Words heavy like gold ingots, his mind a treasure trove, ideas scrawled on torn-out paper, capital letters circled and bolded. A smiling man and campfire add one more chapter on these thirty-four, prepared to make an impact on this journey he has struggled through.
Forty-five years he possesses in his homely cottage, an orange hat left but not forgotten in a room long sold. Blindly, he grasps another tangerine, a glorious saga is near-finished on a half-filled paper. Hands frail as a swallow, his home is a nest, a messy floor acts as branches in a swaying tree. A cane he depends on as he limps through the door, his fingers touch dots on the wall reading “Exit here.” He reminisces on those days when his eyes were sharp, his mind content with a happy book on its final pages.
. . .
Seven-year-old arms growing tired holding a melting popsicle, a distracted child imagines a life amongst the words he reads. The book joins others in a treasured pile amidst a cluttered desk, a boy sits in his chair already wondering of his next endeavor. He admires the tangerine tree, glowing aflame in the golden sun.
As a sparrow chirps, orange glints in a pair of fiery eyes.
A wonderful journey filling blank pages in a book called life.
Seven-year-old eyes glued on the pages, an orange-tinted hand blindly reaches for another tangerine. Enraptured, he smudges the paper as he rapidly flips the page, fulfilling his endless hunger with discovery and Vitamin C. Book piles like skyscrapers, his table is a city, cluttered with works stretching from biographies to Greek mythology. Seven-year-old eyes shining with fire as a spark ignites in this boy; his childish wonder never leaving him as he journeys through this book called life.
Fifteen-year-old hands fly across the keyboard, a pair of shining eyes hardly blink as they scan the words. Determined, he blackens the screen as he enters line after line, pursuing his dreams as his homework remains in the bag. Drafts flowing like a tsunami, his room is an ocean, successful papers on the wall, and crumbled pages on the floor. Fifteen-year-old feet shift impatiently underneath a table; a flame begins to illuminate a trail through this book called life.
Twenty-four dollars inserted silently in a uniform register, a depressed orange hat placed limply on a worker’s head. Machine-like, he bids the customer good day, a forgotten receipt adding to a chain now touching the floor. Emotion like a jailer, his realm is a prison, clean white tiles perfectly measure the unvaried ceiling. Twenty-four slow minutes on a bus towards home, a frowning campfire hopes for reignition; a man grows anxious to finish his story.
Thirty-four chapters printed neatly in a wooden box, a pair of legs run to meet them, sprinting like a desperate pirate. Carefully, he grabs his treasure full of hope and effort, tossing his orange hat on the floor along with unpaid bills. Words heavy like gold ingots, his mind a treasure trove, ideas scrawled on torn-out paper, capital letters circled and bolded. A smiling man and campfire add one more chapter on these thirty-four, prepared to make an impact on this journey he has struggled through.
Forty-five years he possesses in his homely cottage, an orange hat left but not forgotten in a room long sold. Blindly, he grasps another tangerine, a glorious saga is near-finished on a half-filled paper. Hands frail as a swallow, his home is a nest, a messy floor acts as branches in a swaying tree. A cane he depends on as he limps through the door, his fingers touch dots on the wall reading “Exit here.” He reminisces on those days when his eyes were sharp, his mind content with a happy book on its final pages.
. . .
Seven-year-old arms growing tired holding a melting popsicle, a distracted child imagines a life amongst the words he reads. The book joins others in a treasured pile amidst a cluttered desk, a boy sits in his chair already wondering of his next endeavor. He admires the tangerine tree, glowing aflame in the golden sun.
As a sparrow chirps, orange glints in a pair of fiery eyes.
A wonderful journey filling blank pages in a book called life.
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