What Once Was

“It’s been a while since I’ve picked this up,” he thought to himself, reaching for his pocket notebook now looking  just a bit under-the-weather, its black cover graying and pages starting to fray. “I wonder what dreams it holds,” he continued, removing the stale elastic and opening the cover, “what memories of old, what images from another life.”

The book was one very dear to him; a place for his thoughts, his mind, his words, though now to him it was no more than a worn-out husk, no more the powerful spark of life of joy of inspiration that once resembled its author so– the book, like its owner now but a foggy reflection of what in a better it once held.

The words contained therein were not particularly clever or insightful in any grand sense of the terms, but they were his words, and that’s what made them mighty.

And so he sat, and read. And read, and dove ever deeper into the mystery that is somber reminiscence at What Once Was.

[No idea what this is.]