I just got a sudden craving to be someplace ancient.
I have no idea where this came from. I was just sitting at work, trying to fill my empty time, and there it was. This overwhelming desire to sit among ruined stones. In my mind I'm outdoors, with gray skies and a vigorous wind teasing through monoliths and brushing against my cheeks. Or maybe I want to be within a shadowy hut, with a burnt grave of extinguished fire in the center. Or maybe I'm ready to face cathedrals again, to feel ancient beliefs rather than actual buildings.
My new favorite class is postmodern lit, and my professor is this tiny, opinionated New Zealander. She's basically fantastic. We've been examining the process of reading, trying to find the actual origins of the act, and she loves comparing books to artifacts. Each of us is an archaeologist, digging through books to find truths, to find parts of humanity, to find evidence for our beliefs and to learn new concepts. It's uncovering layers of civilization, unearthing what has created our essence.
I can't listen to all this talk of history without wanting to experience it first hand. I've read for years. I've felt the sense of intimacy that comes with the written word. But there's something about going to the roots, sitting in silence, and letting that presence wash over you. Allowing the weight of humanity to rest on your shoulders. It's a kind of immersion that can't be replicated.
So take me to the birthplaces of humanity. Find where the first word was uttered, where the first stone placed on another. Lead me to caves where philosophy was born, smeared in symbols against the walls. Take me to my origins, so I can finally visualize my role in the grand scheme. So I can feel insignificant in the abyss of time, yet important with the vastness of future potential.