Reflections Of An Unknown Writing

"RELFECTIONS OF AN UNKNOWN WRITING"

SHERRI LAURIER



As I unfold this tale of woe, permit me to first introduce myself. I am entitled, "Shadows of the Forgotten" and truly believe that I must be the loneliest poetry book in the world.

Sssshhh; excuse me, but I hear footsteps heading this way. Even though it’s been years since I’ve given joy to anyone, I shall remain forever hopeful…

"Ah!
‘Tis the Demons of Design
Who Place the Curse Upon the Pages and
Aspires its Deviations"

Oh, the dreadful, solitary feeling starts to creep through my binder strings ever so slowly again. A feminine poetry book, such as myself, has so much emotion surging within. It happens every time… Someone walks down my aisle, stops - and then their back turns toward me. I tell you it’s sheer pagebreak. How can they decline the opportunity to revel through my verse? And to think that "Plays" (we’re stored alphabetically in categories) has grown more popular than I in recent years. Unbelievable…

"Memories have withered and drifted away.
Fragile flake-like imageries now play
Among the Ashes of Time…"


By the way – I hope you don’t mind my habit of quoting myself. You must understand, since I am never noticed down here on the fourth shelf, I’m not in a situation to meet most of the other books that live in this library. I dwell near the end of a section at the end of an aisle. Such a terribly remote place in life. My neighbors are stuffy and cold. Why, I can’t even watch people read the other books! It can grow very disillusioning at times. Especially at my age. I can still remember so very much…

I wasn’t always this dusty and faded. Oh no. I can recall, even now, the feeling of the warm ink being pressed onto my crisp, new sheets, one character at a time. The sound of the binding machine forcing its strength to my manuscript – I always had aspirations to be a book! But alas, not everyone had the misfortunes I suffered…

"The time to come is very unsure –
Tho I knew me not in the past –
I know less of me in the future..."

Oh dear, I’m afraid I’ve begun to babble on again.

Anyway, my younger days were just as rough as these days are. Old Man Johnson (the only name I’ve ever known him by) was getting on in years and, I must admit, he did make a few minor errors in me. That’s why my nickname is MisPrint. I’ve only seven siblings – all born on the same Print Day as I. But they weren’t as fortunate as I was. We were all exactly alike. But Johnson’s mistakes cost us our distribution. I’ll never forget that thunderous day…

A very refined woman came into the Press Room and asked for Mr. Johnson, The Printer. They were introduced and acted quite pleasant with each other. The old man proudly presented me to her for inspection. She took me over to an isolated table and lifted my front cover, enthusiastically yet hesitantly. My first few pages were flipped and then a sudden shriek escaped from deep within the reader. I was to learn that this was not just "a reader".

I can still hear the voices of Old Man Johnson and the woman arguing. Her identity is yet to be discovered. Imagine: even at the seasoned age of 47, here I sit - unwanted and lacklustered. Orphaned and without my long-lost loved ones.

"Tragic Time
in to say hello.
dropped
It remained forever
in my Existence…"


There I was - alone and deserted on the naked table. The other books like me sat quietly in a stack on a workbench, almost as if they, too, feared the irate woman.

"The detection of fear is frightening.
The ultimate discovery of fear within oneself
is even more terrifying…"


As it turns out, I did have some discerning inaccuracies. First of all, my page numbers are in a very confused state: odd numbers lie on the left side and even numbers appear on the right! Who ever heard of a Table of Contents in the back of a book? There’s no one I’m dedicated to, and my title page is missing. And I shall never know who birthed me as the writer’s name was completely omitted. I’m totally exposed when my front cover is open. No wonder the woman felt so enraged.

After her spell of ranting and raving, the poetess stormed out the door, leaving with her typewritten manuscript and repeating her suggestion as to what the old man could do with the books. Now both the printer and the printed felt abandoned, despondent and dismayed. My look-alikes were discarded, and I was placed in a storage room. I think I lived there for eons.

Years passed and with them came The Big Move. The entire warehouse was in a furious commotion. Books of every subject, myself included, were packed together tightly and shipped to new homes. It was rumored that Old Man Johnson had printed his last book. The press was being sold and the old building, destroyed. So long after being rejected, I was now facing eviction.

"Carried from my home and
forced into the reality of the Unknown.
Dark corridors encase me now,
rarely seen by Human Insight.
Value wasting away -
Senseless though routine.
Can’t imagine why…"

And so here I have been marooned. Lost and obliterated from the eyes of the world. The dusty shelf upon which I reside has grown stale in activity. It would seem that poetry has become not a legend of the arts, but rather misty memories of the past.

This unseeming negligence of today’s literary society unfurls itself as preposterous. I cannot fathom that I have been forsaken when, compressed within my covers lie unfounded treasures of someone’s thoughts & conceptions. I am a passing glimpse into someone’s soul. And to think that I, myself, am destined for all eternity to wonder just who my creator was. My past has been obscured by a mere quirk of fate, and I seem to have a slow & dreary future. Ah! It matters not anymore. I have grown too old to worry, and my pages too brittle for excessive exercise. I have become unnoticed by life itself.

Oh, oh… What’s happening here? It must be an earthquake. No; wait. I’m being removed from this dreariness! I feel a warm hand smoothing over my cover. It’s been so long since I’ve been caressed. Can I believe the words being spoken on my behalf? I’m what??? I’m being restored?!? Oh - today is a celebration! The re-birth of my magic imaginations. What??? A priceless antique?!!? Humph. I suppose age does play a bit part here… I’m worth… how much??!!?? Rare and precious?!! This is too much for an old volume of poems to handle. But have no fear – I shall manage to succumb to my newfound fame. Ah -- this proves my theory of neglect incorrect. The Art of Poetry is just as esteemed as it always was. Perhaps more-so now. Just look at the designs the collector has for me!

Well, what do you think? I look and feel at least ten years younger! Now that I’ve settled into my new abode, I finally feel I have reached the proper apogee for my artistic status. I have attained a respectable position in the Creative Arts, and once again, people journey through my visions, my reverie. And the popularity of my art form is ever-increasing now that news of my discovery has been announced. A long, dark and solitary existence has led to a brilliant and steadfast avenue upon which I shall travel for a good many years to come. And I wish to thank you, too, for donating a moment of your valuable lifetime to share a moment of mine.

"The dungeons in which
our pasts have been tortured
spark the onset of a long-awaited
ray of sunlight –
Shimmering in the paths of our future,
yet unknown in our present.

The purpose of one’s life
is never really understood –
Only approached with
Strange Apprehensions…

The Questions of Life we choose to ponder
somehow consummate into the
Answers we choose to ignore.

Moments, hours and days
drift through our lifetime
as sand would whirl in the wind –

Perpetually and Aimlessly –

Forever asserting its Reality…"