It was already written and he didn't like that fact. He turned the pages - he was fond of beautiful, white pages from the snow of Himalayas and the foam of the Arabian sea. And the ink of the soil that was turned and overturned, year after year.
He didn't decide it. Brought into the world by a pair of lovers like any other, he didn't have any say in it. He was here, breathing and blinking, alive. And there was nothing he could do about it.
His was a triangle in the jungle of circles and pale green leaves on the staid, old pool. He sang of stone butterflies and waxen bees who drank from the honey of thoughts. He walked in squares and on the lines his ancestors had painted. He often stood on those, bucket and mop in hand. They weren't erased and the drops from his mop went running ahead of time.
He stood with infinite patience that the centuries had ingrained into his collective imagination. He wavered on the edge of light and dark, and found a small earthen lamp near his feet. But his time was near and he watched the wind blow it away as he stepped across.
This time, he didn't listen.
He brought his own ink and brush and overwrote his book.