I started to write a book when I was young. I'm still writing it.
The book keeps growing and growing. It takes shape and then it bends and twists, and takes a new shape.
Once it had a handful of characters, now I can't even remember the names of all the characters.
Once it was contained to one town, one language, one culture, now it's spread over a handful of countries, it's written in three different languages, and it's influenced by a handful of different cultures.
Some say that I'm losing track of my book, that I cannot contain it anymore, that it's taking over my life and taking flight.
Some say that I cannot be found in the book anymore, that I have been lost, that there are only traces of what I am in some odd pages here and there.
They tell me that the book has become a monster of his own, an insatiable ever expanding monster, that will keep ever growing into infinity.
But I know, that everything that has a beginning, then grows, and ultimately finds an end.
The end is somewhere, even if I can't see it.
