April 4, 2018 at 5:30 p.m.

Real-life Fables: Library of Memories

By Clyde Compton-

Down deep within our very souls is a special place I will call the "Library of Memories."

If we were able to see inside such a place I'm sure we would discover row upon row of memories -- some good, some bad but still there none the less. Hidden deep within these walls is the center of our very existence that makes each and every one of us different.

Sitting here, putting these words down on paper, I stop briefly to let my mind roll across the vast sea of times in my life. Imagine being 8 years old and being able to see through the eyes of innocence. Leisurely warm summer days slip by very quickly as I enjoy these times with my friends not shackled by the world around me. I might be mad at Annette for a couple of days because I think she was talking to Ricky. Such is the beginning of the structure that will someday make me an adult.

Slowly placing the book back in it's proper place my hand lingers for a moment because this was part of my life that always left a warm feeling deep down in my heart.

Dust covering the volumes I run my fingers down the years until I suddenly stop on Volume 16. Opening the volume brings back a turbulent time when I was caught between young and old. I was caught between wanting to go to the creek and get dirty with my friends and knowing that when I did someone would have to clean up the mess and for some reason, now I cared. Wanting to drive the family car but afraid that I would mess up and forever be a failure to myself and everyone I knew. Closing this volume was not really that hard because like a butterfly sometimes I felt like the moth.

Time is never on anyone's side and I know that it will not be long before I must leave so I pull out the final volume of the night. I found myself with Volume 26 and quickly began to read. Looking around me, I just don't seemed satisfied with what I have after all these years. Sitting beside a lovely lady feeling the warmth of her love as she changes the diaper of Gage, our child, I mask the feelings of knowing that failure can not be possible because of the look of trust within their eyes.

Stepping back, I look down my row of volumes and notice that there are many empty spaces -- some in my younger years, and some that I have not lived yet.

Given the choice (which we all have the ability to make) which volume, if any, would you choose?

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