My writings

Long before anyone's memory

Long before anyone's memory. She sat at the table. She sat at the wooden table. She sat at the wooden table in a room lit only by a small candle flame. She sat at the wooden table in a room lit only by a small candle flame in silence. She sat at the wooden table in a room lit only by a small candle flame in silence as her pen carved words into the paper.

"What does she write?"

No one knows. No one remembers.

She wrote in silence and secrecy. She wrote from when the sun rose until it set, never uttering a single word. She only existed on paper. Hundreds or thousands, no one remembers exactly, but she wrote many pages filled with her thoughts, her feelings, her ideas, her wishes, her life. Her pen was the escape route and the page was the utopia of her dreams.

Some say she came from a little town, a town that isn't on today's maps. "A town whose wars have all been fought and lost. Whose structures have crumbled. Whose literature is unread. Whose music is unheard. Whose prayers are no more answered."

No one can recall exactly when, but the countless, beautiful pieces she wrote at that wooden table in a room lit only by a small candle flame, which would cast shadows on the walls, all those pieces were destroyed, she destroyed them. No one knows how, but they're gone. All of them. Like herself, the pieces vanished into history.

She destroyed them because she knew no one would read them, no one would remember, it was pointless. Who was she anyway, no one important enough to remember. Why should anyone read her pieces.

Those crisp white pages that held her every thought simply fluttered out of existence, not to be remembered. Every one of her written words lay buried in history.