is writing a memoir to completion akin to living a life to the end?

an unfinished age

i am working on a book that i started on a long time ago. i’m so close to putting all the words in the order that tells the story the  way it wants to unravel. 

i want to get this book  finished this week. it’s my birthday week and the gift i want most is my completed manuscript. 

i want to see the printed copy sprawled open in front of me, the first page ready to have eyes focused on it, the sentences stretching from side to side one on top of the next all the way from the top to the bottom of the paper. 

i want the ink that pools into paragraphs that the retina of the eye consumes to  subtly color perception.  

i want the mind behind the eyes to wonder about the truth of it all, to be curiously disrupted, to slam the book shut at some point and demand that it be given tools to tell its own version of reality, and then send me a copy of its  book to read. 

this week’s marker of time underlines a growing urge toward a deeper mind swap. and writing brings the possibilities into play; ultimately putting my experiences in a book is my version of intimacy at an age in which i never expected to arrive. 

– a.h.