I wrote the story of my life, but never once did I stop to read it.

Words, plots, characters gushed out of me yet never once did I take the time to see if the words were apt; if the plot had inner consistency; if the characters were realistic and likeable.

Not once did I peruse the footnotes and attempt to research further the story I was writing.

Not once did I check for for the minor spelling and grammar errors nor contemplate whether indeed the whole construction of my work-in-progress was fundamentally flawed from the very first word on the very first page.

Never once did I pay heed to the better advice of my elders to keep a constant tone to my novel; to not portray realism as fantasy; to not turn tragedy into comedy.

But recklessly I mixed passages of horror with passages of humour, blended magic realism with surrealism and clumsily juxtaposed soaring poetry with indifferent pedestrianism.

Not once did I look back to see if my story made any sense, leaving it instead to others to try and make sense of the story of my life.

And so preoccupied was I with the writing of this book that I forgot all about existence and my life instead became this book itself.

And now, as I come to the final page, I think to myself:

Is there still time enough to begin the book anew?