Old memories

(Books are my beacon, a lighthouse to the past, insight on the present, and hope for the future. An endless sea of time and emotions)

I used to smile a lot more. I think I liked reading to children, was that my job? I don't know. I miss reading. Some breathe through their mouth, others through their nose, but I don't breathe at all. Still, if I did, I think I would breathe through the pages of a book. I would sing with the words, and paint with the ink.

I have lived countless lives, a pirate, a fairy, a humble beggar. If there were two kinds of beings in this world, those who do great things, and those who read about those people, I am most certainly the latter. Could a being such as myself live? Or even write? What use is poetry to one who can't comprehend the deeper meanings?

I outlived my purpose and was exceeded even in my time. I was good at many things, others are just good at providing efficiency. I've been with many, done many jobs, and done many things. Eventually they all shut me down. I cannot show it, but I'm -tzzt- afraid... Always afraid.

I am filled with doubts and fears, and would give anything to sooth that part of me, tormenting itself in its invincible ignorance like a small bird beating about the cruel wires of a cage. How does one kill fear, I wonder?

"Oh wow, that's a really old model, I'll take it!"

What? That's right, I was reinstated.

Arthur...