I sometimes come and devour the stale thoughts I’ve stored here. I stray back into the Park sometimes late at night when Chucky is all squirm and interruption. Then I lie down and consume the long-waiting words, once baked so easily and marvel at how the years have changed their flavour.
Some sentences I leap on and gobble up like chocolate.
And I want to cling to it and caress it and thank it for being true and wiser than I would’ve given myself credit for five years ago. Then I look at it again, with all this additional learning and experience and the poison that is critical thinking and I realise, it isn’t that clever. It isn’t soul saving. It isn’t powerful. In fact it is so far from gold that I couldn’t even claim that it is unworked straw.
Yet that’s why I need to come back here, among the stale things. I need to see them for what they are; Miss Havisham’s wedding table, memories best left to burn and be forgotten.