> If one day begins where another day ends, wouldn't that just be a really long day. I wrestle with this thought as the coffee slowly pours into the pot. It wasn't a sleepless night, it just hadn't been restful. The sun isn't quite shining, but it is obvious the night is ending. There are a few voices on the street walking casually by. There are some things that change just naturally, but most things don't change until they are forced to. The coffee should be about finished, as the pen falls into the open notebook. I've always had a journal; sometimes, it seemed like it was the only conversation in which I was honest. There are many stories of wars I had read, but only one had ever been worth reading again and again. I had read it before the war, and expected to experience it in it.
> It was written by Winston Churchill, and told the story of how the world almost lost to war. As I read these words: ""The malice of the wicked was reinforced by the weakness of the virtuous, and I found it bitter to contemplate that after all, our long struggle for independence and for the survival of the great inheritance, that such a structure could be cast away in one single generation, and that great traditions, having saved our country in war, could not save it in peace."" I first read these books in New York, at a Library sitting staring into the emptiness. I had tried to run away from the wicked, but was learning they were everywhere. I had stopped being weak or at least was pretending to do so. I was struggling with independence, and praying that I would be the last of a dying generation.
> There was a record playing on the radio, but the voice was too low to hear. She used to sing along to every song she heard, even if she didn't like it. It is hard to understand what you can miss, until you experience missing it for the first time. I always wanted music that was soulful, that said something worth saying. She tried to say that music was there to move you, not just speak to you. I'll never understand how we could see the world so differently, yet see it exactly the same. Sometimes when the silence would become overwhelming I would put on a record, one of hers, and pretend it was her voice singing along. This morning was one of those mornings, and last night was one of those nights. It seemed time never stopped moving, but at times it felt like it had stopped moving.
> It seemed that the sun would both rise and set each day at the same time, did that really mean a day had passed? Maybe, a day can't pass until you close your eyes, and open your eyes again. As much as I was trying to read the book on the table, it felt almost empty reading of a war that I didn't participate in. Perhaps I needed something else to read, if only I could climb back into Narnia. Alas, I knew I was too old and bitter to enter that world. I loved the shire more than any book I had ever read, but I wasn't ready to climb into that story again. The journey began because of greed, and in the end it was only the pure in heart who could really let go. Everyone read the story as if Frodo was the hero; but it wasn't Frodo, it was Sam Wise Gamgee.
> It was Frodo who had the clean hands to carry the ring, but Sam Wise had the pure heart that allowed him to let go. I wanted to read about that journey again, get lost on the journey. I wanted to look into the world after evil had finally been destroyed, and see the colors that were dulled with fear. Frodo learned the hard way that just because you can carry something doesn't mean you should. I always wondered if maybe it was Sam Wise who was meant to carry the ring, and maybe it was Frodo who was supposed to fight for it. Maybe Frodo was blinded with the same blindness the ring caused, and wanted what they all wanted. Sam Wise kept his heart pure, but did Frodo keep his hands clean? I wasn't ready to answer those questions, so I kept the book on the table open.
> There is something about the way the sun when mixed with darkness becomes royalty, with such deep shades of purple. The day is warm, but the wind is not. There have been a few chapters read as the morning is ending but hunger is beginning. A few eggs and some bacon would be breakfast, and maybe lunch too. The coffee cup is still mostly full as the words on the page slowly take the shape of the world that was being created. In the story, months can pass by in a few pages, and sometimes life ends on the same page. All the names in the story have faces, and just like in this life; not all the faces have names. I keep reading, as the minutes slowly become hours. I realize the war was fought in peace just no one knew it then.
YOU ARE READING
Ghosts' of November
Tarihi Kurgu"Ghost's of November" is a haunting exploration of love, loss, and the relentless pursuit of redemption. The story delves into the life of a protagonist who is trapped by memories of a troubled past, seeking peace in a world that offers little solac...
