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Autobiographical Archaeology

There is a centuries old story in which a man unearths his own own tomb. In this day and age he would be called an archaeologist but, hundreds of years ago, he was simply a wanderer; a searcher. Perhaps an explorer or adventurer. Perhaps an outcast; a man ostracized. A man with no home, friends, family or country. It is the story of a man who, after hundreds of years (longer than this story has been around) did stumble upon his own grave. More so, it was a tomb like those afforded only to pharaohs and saviors or presidents of great nations. This man had wandered for years through the desert or mountains or hills and valleys and rivers in search of his heart. The heart which was stolen from him by a demon or angel or friend or lover. He was heartless and his only goal in life , this half life for he had no heart, was to retrieve that which was stolen from him. Upon retrieving his heart he surely knew he would die, yet he continued on with his quest.

Through the rain and snow and solar flares and hurricanes and all sorts of tempestuous weather, he did struggle forward and forever until the skies did clear and a great structure was seen.

This is where the story is lost. The writer has since died and his words are lost to time. The breath of those who lived the story are inhaled and spat out by electricity and webs of wires and ADHD and pills and a cacophony of demonic dreams splayed upon monitors. We are dumber for having grown up. We are stupid for not realizing fables and stories of life and death are as real as waking up and removing the sleep from our eyes.

There is a story told minutes ago. It is real and it ends the way you wish it to.

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