the notebook

the moment you stop thinking, and there is no way to get your thoughts back, it is like walking in a black tunnel; that has no end; a man walked once in warfare, he was injured and bleeding, this man wrote on his small note book few words, i cant think; i cant feel my body, he passed away because of the cold weather; his body could not handle the low temperature he died alone bleeding on the white snow, one of his friends saw his body near a burned tree, he cried over his death took the note book from his cold hands and also walked away without thinking, he saw few houses far away up in the hills, he heard many voices, he knew that moment its the sound of the death, he was not bleeding or injured he was only lost looking for a shelter after days of walking with no sleeping, the younger man continued his steps toward the small town, even though was sure that he is going to die, that was his only thought, while he was walking he started seeing bodies and burned houses, suddenly someone yield; in a different language, he could not understand it at all; just turned around to see, and then a bullet hit his chest, as he continued walking toward his killer, he took the note book from his ripped pocket, another bullet hit his left leg, the blonde young man, fell down on the white snow; few days later his group discovered his body near the old town, the note book still in his pocket, covered with blood, the leader of the group took this small note book, through it away, a month later the war was almost over, a foreign journalist was passing by this town writing his reports to a newspaper, it was a real surprise for him, to see an old small note book, near the burned tanks, he took it and opened it, the first few pages was all about strategies and war codes, written in french and English, with a good and perfect handwriting as well, he could not clearly understand because of the blood and the bad shape of the book, until he reached a page with bad handwriting, written by a bloody finger, i cant think, i cant feel my body, in french, without thinking he went to London after a long journey; to start his own book about the cold war, he wrote down, death is cold, war has no mercy, even thoughts can not survive, one year later the book almost done, but the writer died from an infection he took during the war.

do not captivate your thoughts, your words will live forever, in every soul till the end of the world, no war can kill an idea, we die to make a room for books.