As a young girl I often looked towards
the words of others to replace absent playmates. Their steadfast allegiance brought me comfort, occupying me for hours during the long
days of summer. Some were short and fat, contrived of many persona’s
while others were tall and skinny consisting of only one. Some were
rude and would show up uninvited, all shiny and new. Of all of these
I treasured those who took their time getting to know me, what I
thought about life and who were slow to build a friendship with the
building blocks of time. They may not of always worn the newest that
fiber had to offer, always smelled decontaminated, nor could they
promise to always be home when I came knocking. But what they did
have to offer were memories, hope, and adventures. Adventures they
could not found by joining a club consisting of many strangers but
rather a secret club consisting of strangeness from strange lands
using strange words that were strangely beautiful. They visit me
every now and then, traveling down a ray of sunshine, riding down on
a cool raindrop, in the blissful cadence of horse hoofs on a broken
brick road, within the wind which spirals the turning autumn leaves
up to the heavens, in the smell of aged paper and leather, and in the
playful, mischievousness that my children have. They bring endless
hours of dreamy innocence, I miss them.
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