Picture this. You slowly walk up the stairs. You pause for a second on the landing and look out of the dusty window-pane at the branches of a fir tree. The tree looks back at you expectantly. It eggs you on to climb the last flight of stairs and open the wooden door to the attic. So you do.
The door creaks open. It isn't a threatening creak. It's welcoming. As if the wood is sighing with relief that you have finally arrived. The cobwebs would give you a gentle hug if they could, but they refrain. You're wearing plaid and they don't want to turn into dust bunnies just yet.
At the far corner of the attic is a trunk. You leave footprints in the dust. The fingerprints come next as you reach down and with a heave open the lid of the trunk. In it are diaries and journals. Page after yellowing page of close writing. Royal blue with a fountain pen. Newspaper and magazine clippings come next. With a few scraps with verse and prose scattered here and there. And photographs. Oh, there certainly are photographs. It's a trunk of words, dreams, hopes, tales... Memories. It's a collection of writing.
I haven't a trunk. Nor an attic. And so, instead, I offer you this.