It had a triangular shape – reminded me of a miniature souvenirs you would find on the crowded streets of Cairo..But it was light as feather, as a snowflake resistant to melt on my fingers. It had the color of sinking west Sun. The skin was crisp and fragile. I played with it in my hand for a while. It’s cookie like any other cookie you are eager to eat. But this one, instead of delectable white, sweat cream hid just few words I was reluctant to read.
The truth, curled in this little floury shell is just waiting to hatch out like a baby lizard from its egg, wanting to develop into u full grown destiny, a path that is a head of me?
“It’s a game, just a game!”…everybody cheered around me, but I didn’t hear their voices any more. From that moment I knew:
There is only one writer
of the unfolding book
of my life.
Maja S. Todorovic