The Museum Was Me
The Museum Was Me I. The Memory Rooms I stare at the blank blinking cursor and wonder which memory rooms stand intact. These memory rooms, gilded and glowing in opulence, now rest—scarred by a revolt that brought firebombs aplenty. Less so for pride or show, these rooms once neatly arranged by eras, chapters, ages that have past told a remarkable story. Memories adorn the walls while trinkets, tokens, and portraits once proud and prominently arranged liven the room with a steady hum of warmth. Framed photos, photo-albums, notebooks and collected novels weave the tale of a life lived well. An undertaking that wasn’t much when it began, stands as a mighty museum of oddities and curiosities slowly curated in time. II. The Revolt Begins The revolt changed everything. Dark figures stormed the rooms. Portraits were knifed. Images of grace and goodness were sliced marring the figures and unions once held in gilded stillness. A family portrait of our trip to the coast was ...