The Forgotten

There are things hidden behind the walls built of fire brick and the strongest mortar. Secret things.  Dark things.  Things that linger in the world of the forgotten.  There are places, each precisely located like the points of interest on a map. Objects, persistently holding their distinct shape, color, and texture. There are even intervals of time; some, mere glimpses, a fragment of a moment. Others; however, are carefully dated and documented and deposited away, with a promise, never to be examined again.

One must be cautious when entering the world of the forgotten.  It is a labyrinth. Filled with pit stops and detours.  A tether may be your only hope.

But even the strongest tether has a weight limit.

Lost in the labyrinth, one may linger.  Examine the offerings. Pick them up, peruse their texture.  In a moment of audacity, pocket a few.  You have prepared yourself diligently; however, you aren’t prepared. 

What haunts this world is revealed in a flash.  Sadness turns to sorrow, sorrow begets anger, anger reveals fear, fear turns to panic.  Like the lightening that almost frightens you before the thunder crashes. And you run.

Frantic, racing, panic sets in.  You weave through the twists, leap past the pitfalls, the entire time weighted down with what you attempted to claim in those brief moments. 

When you thought you were brave.

You try to cast out what you carry.  Desperate to mollify the inhabitants of this world, lest they find reason to follow you, should you find an escape.

Your eyes dart wildly, searching for stairs, or a ladder, even the hint of a grip with which to pull yourself up.  A master mason enclosed this world.

In the moments before you spot the rope, you realize this may be the time.  How broken must you be to not trust a warning from yourself?  Is this the time you don’t return?

There are things hidden behind the walls built of fire brick and the strongest mortar. Secret things.  Dark things.  Things that linger in the world of the forgotten.  There are places, each precisely located like the points of interest on a map. Objects, persistently holding their distinct shape, color, and texture. There are even intervals of time; some, mere glimpses, a fragment of a moment. Others; however, are carefully dated and documented and deposited away, with a promise, never to be examined again.

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