It is like this. You wrote a play once, and you didn't get to finish the rehearsal. You forgot the play. You forgot all about it, and yet a secret part of you has a recollection and wants to continue it. You want to see this play before your very eyes. It is not exactly that you finish where you left off, yet it is something like that.

Life is what you call it. Your words determine your life. Call it heads, and it is heads. Call it tails, and it is tails. Life is something you stir, put the cover on, serve to yourself and others. The soup of life may seem to come to you ready-made, but, even then, you are the purchaser of it. At least, you are the packager. At least, you carry it with you.