Why do we try to write the story
When the Maker already has the script
We try to write in pencil what he writes in pen
Try to erase what we don’t like
His plans are permanent
Ours are erasable
He writes with ink
We write with lead
But he only gives us the script if we want it
His script leads to the map
Where our pages endlessly result to nothing
Hundreds of pages
Not leading to a whole
We try to put a cap on the pen
So we can write our own way
But why?
When all we get is crumpled pages
Thrown in the trash
Because we keep hitting a wall
Our plans not good enough
Only leading us to more confusion
Pencils break
Pens don’t
He doesn’t give up
Doesn’t try to rewrite over our work
No he takes our pencil
Gently, takes our paper
Turns it into a map
Started with a line
Ending in an X
Our pencils were dull, colorless
Had no life, no final destination
But his map is simple, appealing, easy to read
Decorated in vibrant colors
He doesn’t make it complicated
Just tells us to follow the pen
His way, his plan
And the rest we’ll find along the way
We don’t need all the details along the way
Just the guide and the destination