violetpaw
...
Marching up and down these streets, you will see every inch of the little town; old and quiet and cobblestoned. It amazes you that this place, so small and unassuming - yet ancient, enough to have witnessed horrors and joys like you never will - could harbor more history, more secrets than you find in all your travels to the farthest regions of the world.
Ahh, if only these cement gods could talk. What stories they would have to tell.
Often I'll think of myself as a series of books; section Me off into novels. I'm surprised that most are cared for, not only by others but by myself- shocked, even. They are worlds that we slip away into without looking back. They are loved.
Others I imagine abandoned in an old and decaying part of my mind. Sitting, waiting. (Everyone hides things)
I'd like to, maybe, some time, eventually, return to that place where they are kept. Blow the dust off their covers and read them from front to back. But to tell the truth- it's dark in there, and I don't have a lantern to guide my way.