There is nothing much better to do than writing when life has turned out to be like it always be, limited. But when the time has come to call it an end, it tries to expand, wanting more.
It’s a curious case what it has become. There is no clear destination to reach but it won’t stop moving forward. It makes you wonder for both what am I doing and why am I doing this. Maybe it’s still a metaphor, or maybe it’s a stack of books.
Opening a door into a new strange room with bookshelves all over it, you started to read. With over 7 billions bookshelves around you, and countless of books. Some are blanks, many in different languages, different genre. How many can you read? How many will be left untouched?
Though millions of people will walk through this room, with the increase of its accessibility and maybe some helpful translation, how many will be read, appreciated, or memorised? Will it matter? What about the writers? do we care?
And then the end will come, it will come eventually. There will be a huge crack on the library’s floor it swallowed every single books. Every single life. What is after the crack nobody knows. But we know one thing for sure, whatever came after the crack will end too.
Everything that has a beginning will end. Even the heaven fell apart.
And then what? does it matter? will it matter? What about now? isn’t it more precious than what that will come? The writing on a white screen, though will left unread, unknown, but the joy of writing it down is sufficient even just for a little while.