A Human Being

I think of a human being as an empty piece of paper, in the beginning. A fresh, sharped-edged, firm piece of paper. And all the persons who you come in contact with can write something on that piece of paper. They can choose to write about anything, about the clear blue sky that they've recently seen, advice, complains or any other things that passes through their minds... any little thing. And whatever they write will be written in pen and can not be erased; of course some of the writing will be bigger, and other smaller, some of it will be written firmly and other lightly, some of the writing may wash down in time and some of it may remain there for ever, it depends on the writer as well as on the piece of paper.

And when you are old you will see what sort of book the plain piece of paper has become. It will be a hard-cover, yellowish-paged journal, lacking parts of the story, ending abruptly, presenting romances and dramas in certain chapters, dullness in others, building characters that you have come to admire or on the contrary, antagonize. Upon reading through the pages you will find flows of written images that you may have forgotten and can't remember why or how.

What sort of book do you want to be?... What will be remembered of you?

And when another sees you, he may not be able to read all that has be written upon you, but he will, in a glance, see through every word that others have scribbled; he will see the effects... he will see the person you are and consequently the things that made you who you are...

So... be careful what you engrave in others' pages...