Daily Prompt: This Is Your Life

This post is in response to The Daily Post’s Daily Prompt titled “This Is Your Life,” and the directions are as follows:

If you could read a book containing all that has happened and will ever happen in your life, would you? If you choose to read it, you must read it cover to cover.

After reading the prompt, I couldn’t believe it.  This is something that I’ve thought about for as long as I could remember.  As a young girl, I attended Catholic school, and I often imagined that, upon arriving to heaven, you were presented with a library.  In this library, there would be a book depicting each and every detail of your life, along with books that focused on specific days of importance, categories, or lists.  For instance, I imagined that there would be books detailing my most life-changing moments, books detailing my thoughts, books detailing what others said and thought about me, and books that contained lists, ranking the best, worst, most unique parts of my life.  In retrospect, perhaps this would be more comparable to a type of reflective purgatory, but you get the idea.

This idea of putting your life into a book that has been written by an omniscient source is one that I’ve never shared because I thought it was…well, I thought it was pretty insane–one of those weird “me”-thoughts that we all have.  This is just further proof to me that we’re all connected and that, despite our differences, we are more alike than we’re led to believe.

But to answer the question, I would read it, out of curiosity, or perhaps out of inexplicable need, but I would regret reading it.  I know myself well enough to know that the desire and temptation to know would trump any common sense.  They say, “Ignorance is bliss,” but I can’t help but wonder, in this case, which decision would be more ignorant?  I’m tempted to believe that the decision to read the book would be the ignorant one.  And I know that, despite the fact that I love my life, the negative points of my life put into words would fill me with both guilt and despair and possibly even a total loss of self.

I think that reading a book written about my life would be completely shattering.  I imagine that the source would be neutral, perhaps not even human or tangible, and I’m not sure that I could handle the blow that such a neutral reflection of my life would have on my own perceptions of self.

In short, I would read it.

And I would regret it.


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